Enterrado.
Apr. 11th, 2009 11:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
matt_doyleEight hundred words of Chapter Two, all of them new. Also, I do believe this is the first gunfight I've ever written - let me know whether or not it makes sense, or works dramatically, or works at all for that matter. I don't think I'm happy with it, but I haven't had any caffeine yet today and so I can't be sure - I'm not happy woth much of anything.
Chapter Two
Red had been told that he was quick as a rattlesnake by all manner of folk, and it made him smile. When he was younger and stupider, he’d prove them wrong on a bet – rile a sidewinder, and shoot it before it could bite. It worked every time but once, when he was only saved by the thickness of his boots.
Nobody was faster than a rattlesnake. But just as they were ready to bite, the rattle stopped – and Red was more than fast enough to shoot then, in the heartbeat before they moved. That was how he won gunfights – by being quick and being smart. He had to. A coiled snake five feet away was an easy target, but anything already moving or too far away might be beyond his aim.
Pull the trigger back on a revolver and fan the hammer with your other hand, though, and you didn’t much need to aim. Draw on a man from under ten feet away and it was pretty much the same.
Problem was, Red figured, as he shot through the haze and splinters where the back door had been, he didn’t have enough bullets for that. He stroked his palm over the hammer only twice – three shots, tracking sideways across the doorway and hoping their man with a shotgun wasn’t narrow enough to slip through the space between the bullets. The back door, kicked open with the force of the gunfire, a smoking hole where the doorknob and latch should have been, caromed off the wall and swung halfway towards closed again. Good hinges. On his left, the boy fired once, cleanly, and if the front door had still been in one piece, he would have given it a peephole.
Idiots though they might be, the town posse weren’t complete backbirths – the man who came in through the front door was crouched low, shotgun panning toward Jack as the boy’s first shot went a solid foot over his head.
The gun in Jack’s left hand jumped, and the shotgunner decided to lie down for a while.
Two down, Red thought, satisfied by the pause when no-one further burst in the back door. Must’ve winged the bastard, at least. Jack slid forward, trying to get a better angle and cover the door, and Red kicked him back a breath before the next fusillade hit the hallway like a hailstorm. He almost got himself shot for his trouble, one of Jack’s guns rising to track him even before his heel impacted the kid’s hip – reflex, he figured – and the other wavering to match just after, which he reckoned was suspicion. He ignored it, because there wasn’t a percentage in wondering if one boy was going to shoot him when there were at least a dozen fellows outside he didn’t have any doubts on.
The blast that had come through the back door this time had been scattershot – so either they had two assholes with shotguns out back, or the one he guessed he’d shot was luckier than Red was. He waited. If the posse didn’t want to get caught in their own crossfire, they had to rush one door at a time, and just lay outside the other one waiting to pick them off. Their spokesman was out front, and the only corpse so far was keeled over in the front door, so it was a safe bet –
He shot twice, spun his cylinder out, and reloaded. One down, one staggering in the doorframe, and before Jack could turn covering from the front door Red used the first shot from his fresh load to knock the staggerer down the back stairs. So far, so good – Red was more than happy to shoot at vague, faceless shadows rather than waiting to see the whites of their eyes; but he was keenly aware that he had nineteen rounds left, and no idea how many injectors Jack had stuffed in his jacket pockets.
Behind him, the kitchen window broke. He spun, which put his back to the open back door, but let him see the man levering a rifle barrel in through the window, and let him watch as a shotgun blast from outside turned the man’s head to so much gunpowder smoke and red mist, neither one much thicker than the other.
Well. That was four dead for sure, one winged … and someone else evening the odds. Two someones, Red figured, and thought for a moment about how that might change the game. Then he bolted for the front door, so low he would have been scuttling like a crab if he went lower.
Behind him, Jack started firing again: first one gun, then a pause for correction, then the other. Red thought that meant there wasn’t a shotgun at his back any more. He flattened himself beside the door frame, where one half of the front door, like a dutch door now, hung over his head. The lower half seesawed back and forth in front of him, more nuisance than cover.
He ducked his head out the door. One man stood by the posse’s horses with a long rifle. Two more hung back, keeping the doorway covered – the handguns they held were cheap pieces, which might mean they didn’t know how to shoot straight and it might not. The fourth man, backed up to the outside of the door frame the way Red was to the inside, almost killed him.
The butt of his pistol came down hard on the top of Red’s skull, right at the edge of his bandana-bandage, and the world seemed to light up like Independence Day in bursts of color. Red let himself fall sideways, until his left hand – the one with the gun in it – was clear of the doorframe, and looked up into the muzzle of the other man’s gun the moment he pulled the trigger.
Red hit the floor with a huff of escaping breath, and thought about what a clean field of fire he was leaving everyone right now. Any second now, before he could get back up…
Then Jack was standing over him, pouring fire into the rifleman, and there was a shout from the front yard as another boy burst around the corner to Red’s left, whooping something and discharging his shotgun into the back of one of the pistoleers. A rifle cracked from somewhere else, and the last of the posse went down in a heap. Red had just enough presence of mind to count – nine shying, shrieking horses picketed by the dead rifleman, yes, that was all of them – before the world went dim and red, fading slowly back to black.
Chapter Two
Red had been told that he was quick as a rattlesnake by all manner of folk, and it made him smile. When he was younger and stupider, he’d prove them wrong on a bet – rile a sidewinder, and shoot it before it could bite. It worked every time but once, when he was only saved by the thickness of his boots.
Nobody was faster than a rattlesnake. But just as they were ready to bite, the rattle stopped – and Red was more than fast enough to shoot then, in the heartbeat before they moved. That was how he won gunfights – by being quick and being smart. He had to. A coiled snake five feet away was an easy target, but anything already moving or too far away might be beyond his aim.
Pull the trigger back on a revolver and fan the hammer with your other hand, though, and you didn’t much need to aim. Draw on a man from under ten feet away and it was pretty much the same.
Problem was, Red figured, as he shot through the haze and splinters where the back door had been, he didn’t have enough bullets for that. He stroked his palm over the hammer only twice – three shots, tracking sideways across the doorway and hoping their man with a shotgun wasn’t narrow enough to slip through the space between the bullets. The back door, kicked open with the force of the gunfire, a smoking hole where the doorknob and latch should have been, caromed off the wall and swung halfway towards closed again. Good hinges. On his left, the boy fired once, cleanly, and if the front door had still been in one piece, he would have given it a peephole.
Idiots though they might be, the town posse weren’t complete backbirths – the man who came in through the front door was crouched low, shotgun panning toward Jack as the boy’s first shot went a solid foot over his head.
The gun in Jack’s left hand jumped, and the shotgunner decided to lie down for a while.
Two down, Red thought, satisfied by the pause when no-one further burst in the back door. Must’ve winged the bastard, at least. Jack slid forward, trying to get a better angle and cover the door, and Red kicked him back a breath before the next fusillade hit the hallway like a hailstorm. He almost got himself shot for his trouble, one of Jack’s guns rising to track him even before his heel impacted the kid’s hip – reflex, he figured – and the other wavering to match just after, which he reckoned was suspicion. He ignored it, because there wasn’t a percentage in wondering if one boy was going to shoot him when there were at least a dozen fellows outside he didn’t have any doubts on.
The blast that had come through the back door this time had been scattershot – so either they had two assholes with shotguns out back, or the one he guessed he’d shot was luckier than Red was. He waited. If the posse didn’t want to get caught in their own crossfire, they had to rush one door at a time, and just lay outside the other one waiting to pick them off. Their spokesman was out front, and the only corpse so far was keeled over in the front door, so it was a safe bet –
He shot twice, spun his cylinder out, and reloaded. One down, one staggering in the doorframe, and before Jack could turn covering from the front door Red used the first shot from his fresh load to knock the staggerer down the back stairs. So far, so good – Red was more than happy to shoot at vague, faceless shadows rather than waiting to see the whites of their eyes; but he was keenly aware that he had nineteen rounds left, and no idea how many injectors Jack had stuffed in his jacket pockets.
Behind him, the kitchen window broke. He spun, which put his back to the open back door, but let him see the man levering a rifle barrel in through the window, and let him watch as a shotgun blast from outside turned the man’s head to so much gunpowder smoke and red mist, neither one much thicker than the other.
Well. That was four dead for sure, one winged … and someone else evening the odds. Two someones, Red figured, and thought for a moment about how that might change the game. Then he bolted for the front door, so low he would have been scuttling like a crab if he went lower.
Behind him, Jack started firing again: first one gun, then a pause for correction, then the other. Red thought that meant there wasn’t a shotgun at his back any more. He flattened himself beside the door frame, where one half of the front door, like a dutch door now, hung over his head. The lower half seesawed back and forth in front of him, more nuisance than cover.
He ducked his head out the door. One man stood by the posse’s horses with a long rifle. Two more hung back, keeping the doorway covered – the handguns they held were cheap pieces, which might mean they didn’t know how to shoot straight and it might not. The fourth man, backed up to the outside of the door frame the way Red was to the inside, almost killed him.
The butt of his pistol came down hard on the top of Red’s skull, right at the edge of his bandana-bandage, and the world seemed to light up like Independence Day in bursts of color. Red let himself fall sideways, until his left hand – the one with the gun in it – was clear of the doorframe, and looked up into the muzzle of the other man’s gun the moment he pulled the trigger.
Red hit the floor with a huff of escaping breath, and thought about what a clean field of fire he was leaving everyone right now. Any second now, before he could get back up…
Then Jack was standing over him, pouring fire into the rifleman, and there was a shout from the front yard as another boy burst around the corner to Red’s left, whooping something and discharging his shotgun into the back of one of the pistoleers. A rifle cracked from somewhere else, and the last of the posse went down in a heap. Red had just enough presence of mind to count – nine shying, shrieking horses picketed by the dead rifleman, yes, that was all of them – before the world went dim and red, fading slowly back to black.
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Date: 2009-04-12 12:39 am (UTC)...a shotgun blast from outside turned the man’s head to so much gunpowder smoke and red mist, neither one much thicker than the other. Eeeaugh... D:
which might mean they didn’t know how to shoot straight and it might not. Even knowing that it's Red's odd syntax, this construction is a little awkward. Personally I would say "which might or might not mean..." etc. Or split it into two sentences. eg: "...shoot straight. Then again, it might not." I dunno. I'd have to play with it.
light up like Independence Day in bursts of color. Good simile.
into the muzzle of the other man’s gun the moment he pulled the trigger. Holy crap! Who he?! I assume the he is supposed to mean RED, but it sounds like the gun-wielder is pulling the trigger! Does that mean Red got shot in the face? DD: If not, then WHY not? Particularly given the next two-sentence paragraph!
Nice *cough* fade to black. ;) Shorter segment than the last chapter, but I think the fight worked well, and your heroes are not invincible, which makes it better.