(no subject)
It had come down to this. The finality of it was acute and clear. Carla Jean had been made to live and she would, but her husband would not. That had been decided from the start.
Standing in the doorway of their home, Chigurh had lifted the gun and aimed, his left arm throbbing sharply as it held the weight. He'd gotten off one shot and watched as Moss ducked and changed directions. With the gun slung over his uninjured shoulder, Chigurh had stalked after him, the brush of the jungle snapping at denim, low branches catching his hair. The sights weren't clear enough and Chigurh had limited amunition.
He stopped abruptly between two large trees and raised his gun once more, choosing his shot carefully and firing. The silencer pinged and Chigurh's body jolted with the force of the release.
Moss turned to look, sidestepping just in time, shoulder slamming hard into the trunk of a tree, the bullet whizzing past him and shattering an ancient stump just ahead. It was close. Close enough that the rain of splinters fluttered his shirtsleeve, one cutting through and drawing blood. He pressed his back against the tree, waited one breath -- two, and then turned and fired, crouched low to the ground and moving again before he could even assess the damage.
The mountains were one way. The Compound the other. The playground. The schoolhouse. Llewelyn turned toward the mountains and he ran.
Chigurh twisted and used the larger of the two trees as a shield. He heard the shot and the high-pitched zing of the bullet as it missed. Turning sharply, he raised his gun and aimed at Moss's fleeing figure. East. Chigurh didn't wish to go east.
The high brush and low branches largely hid Moss from view, but his way was made clear by the rustling of the dense vegetation and Chigurh could predict his path. His lips pulled into a tight line and his eyes narrowed and there was no hesitation as he took another shot.
Llewelyn felt himself being herded. Like cattle. Like a stray dog in an alleyway. The old wound at his side burned, the still tender scar pulling and it'd been weeks but he knew it might still rupture. A wound like that's tricky and he'd been too careless with it. Sometimes they never heal up the way they're supposed to.
He was running in the wrong direction, using whatever cover he could, but he had no choice. He could hear people up ahead and he steered a wide path around them. He had no doubt the sonofabitch'd do just about anything, but he'd proven himself more than logical. Heading right for the Compound wouldn't be good for either of them.
Chigurh missed his target, but he'd achieved his goal. They would west, through the jungle before it would clear open.
He pulled himself away from the tree and held the shotgun close to himself as he ducked low and followed Moss through the brush. Branches snagged at his clothing and snapped under his weight, but his eyes never left Moss, tracking him. Watching and aiting. He had one round left in the gun, but six in his pocket. He would bide his time and get Moss in the open. Wound him first, receive the necessary information and then complete his job.
Under the cover of fire, brief sprays of bullets used only to keep the other at bay, Llewelyn ducked under branches and behind rocks and over tangled roots while the man -- Anton Chigurh moved behind him tirelessly. A machine. He'd wondered, more than once, idly while half asleep in his bed, if the man was even human.
Didn't rightly matter anymore.
What mattered was his aching lungs. His screaming feet. His burning calves. Those things mattered. When he charged toward the building, a sprawling, two story home standing out in a clearing just off the path, it was out of desperation.
Slowly, the distance between Chigurh and Moss grew shorter and the trees began to thin. Faint light from the setting sun filtered through and up ahead Chigurh could make out the solid lines of a familiar building. His gaze flickered right and then left and he heard Moss's labored breaths and stuttering footfalls yards ahead.
With his left arm bloodied and aching, Chigurh rested against the large trunk of a tree and again raised his gun. He took aim and got off a clear shot, watched as the bullet hit Moss's shoulder. Good, but not good enough.
He gritted his teeth and turned to rest full against the tree and reached into his pocket. Loaded his gun.
[OOC: Information about this plot can be found here. Please read before tagging in. Have fun, guys.]
Standing in the doorway of their home, Chigurh had lifted the gun and aimed, his left arm throbbing sharply as it held the weight. He'd gotten off one shot and watched as Moss ducked and changed directions. With the gun slung over his uninjured shoulder, Chigurh had stalked after him, the brush of the jungle snapping at denim, low branches catching his hair. The sights weren't clear enough and Chigurh had limited amunition.
He stopped abruptly between two large trees and raised his gun once more, choosing his shot carefully and firing. The silencer pinged and Chigurh's body jolted with the force of the release.
Moss turned to look, sidestepping just in time, shoulder slamming hard into the trunk of a tree, the bullet whizzing past him and shattering an ancient stump just ahead. It was close. Close enough that the rain of splinters fluttered his shirtsleeve, one cutting through and drawing blood. He pressed his back against the tree, waited one breath -- two, and then turned and fired, crouched low to the ground and moving again before he could even assess the damage.
The mountains were one way. The Compound the other. The playground. The schoolhouse. Llewelyn turned toward the mountains and he ran.
Chigurh twisted and used the larger of the two trees as a shield. He heard the shot and the high-pitched zing of the bullet as it missed. Turning sharply, he raised his gun and aimed at Moss's fleeing figure. East. Chigurh didn't wish to go east.
The high brush and low branches largely hid Moss from view, but his way was made clear by the rustling of the dense vegetation and Chigurh could predict his path. His lips pulled into a tight line and his eyes narrowed and there was no hesitation as he took another shot.
Llewelyn felt himself being herded. Like cattle. Like a stray dog in an alleyway. The old wound at his side burned, the still tender scar pulling and it'd been weeks but he knew it might still rupture. A wound like that's tricky and he'd been too careless with it. Sometimes they never heal up the way they're supposed to.
He was running in the wrong direction, using whatever cover he could, but he had no choice. He could hear people up ahead and he steered a wide path around them. He had no doubt the sonofabitch'd do just about anything, but he'd proven himself more than logical. Heading right for the Compound wouldn't be good for either of them.
Chigurh missed his target, but he'd achieved his goal. They would west, through the jungle before it would clear open.
He pulled himself away from the tree and held the shotgun close to himself as he ducked low and followed Moss through the brush. Branches snagged at his clothing and snapped under his weight, but his eyes never left Moss, tracking him. Watching and aiting. He had one round left in the gun, but six in his pocket. He would bide his time and get Moss in the open. Wound him first, receive the necessary information and then complete his job.
Under the cover of fire, brief sprays of bullets used only to keep the other at bay, Llewelyn ducked under branches and behind rocks and over tangled roots while the man -- Anton Chigurh moved behind him tirelessly. A machine. He'd wondered, more than once, idly while half asleep in his bed, if the man was even human.
Didn't rightly matter anymore.
What mattered was his aching lungs. His screaming feet. His burning calves. Those things mattered. When he charged toward the building, a sprawling, two story home standing out in a clearing just off the path, it was out of desperation.
Slowly, the distance between Chigurh and Moss grew shorter and the trees began to thin. Faint light from the setting sun filtered through and up ahead Chigurh could make out the solid lines of a familiar building. His gaze flickered right and then left and he heard Moss's labored breaths and stuttering footfalls yards ahead.
With his left arm bloodied and aching, Chigurh rested against the large trunk of a tree and again raised his gun. He took aim and got off a clear shot, watched as the bullet hit Moss's shoulder. Good, but not good enough.
He gritted his teeth and turned to rest full against the tree and reached into his pocket. Loaded his gun.
[OOC: Information about this plot can be found here. Please read before tagging in. Have fun, guys.]