Elliot Murdock

Chapter Two

     Elliot's blue eyes shot open the moment he heard the creaking and cracking of the rotten door. Not quite just open but torn, ripped and fallen from the hinges, swaying a falling to the floor below. His chest Tightened at his inhale, quickly stopping it from Exhaling. No sound. The Cold rushing from the outside made him miss the time that door was closed and blocked him from the elements of the outside. Everything froze, his Fingers, his nose, his breath and his thoughts. Even the pain in his knee that pulsed with his heart was pushed to the back compartment of his mind. The Woods settles under the foot steps. Two step, four step, six step. The noises of the wood threaten to cave the floors. Would be a long time coming. "He's here" a feminine voice spoke up, quiet and sure, " I can sense him, but there two many thoughts to make out, its too loud." there was a in hint of pain within the comment, " Stop, Your pushing too hard," another feminine voice spoke up this one was accented but Elliot couldn't make out from where.

     Another set of foot steps creaked and moved, they were getting closer. They were slow and Deliberate. Heavy step, with that strange sound of clanking metal. They moved right. Searching. "There." that Deep Rough voice he made out in the snow. Louder, Loud enough to make the dust shake loose from the rafters above. The sound Forces Elliot to Pivot around the wall that was shielding him. He bit back a groan trying to rip from his throat, as he keep his leg from buckling under him. The Pistol held in his hands, not shaking. Have to keep standing. He leveled the pistol as the figure in front of him stepped forward, fully into view. A man, with a powerful build. Couldn't more than half a foot taller than himself. His chest and shoulders broad. Dressed in layers. Multiple jackets ands shirts, Jeans and boots covered in the frost of the winter outside. His hair was thick, wild and untamed moved not only from his head but framing his face. His posture showed Elliot a calm that he couldn't understand, only that, this man was not afraid of him. Not afraid of the gun right in front of him. Not even a little. A sharp breath left Elliot's while his leg started to tremble in his stance threatening to buckle. It Shown through in his voice,

     "You need to back the fuck up. Now"
     But the man didn't waver. Didn't move. Not even flinch. He just looked through Elliot with unreadable eyes and expression, only tired, hard and something else the boy couldn't make out. "That's good form," his voice boomed in the air again. "Better than I'd expect out of a half starved runway" The boy watched the mans eyes move scanning him. " But your favoring your right side, you hurt yourself kid?" the comment was only meet by Elliot's silence, His jaw clenched. The man's head tilted, unimpressed. " who taught you? Your dad?". A fire sparked in his he chest, Elliot's finger twitched near the trigger. The Man expression softened at the boys waver. "Didn't mean to strike a nerve there, just hell, I've seen Enough scared kids holding guns to know the difference. Your not Scared. But kid..."

     "You don't wanna shoot me." That was when his hand moved, dipping into his coat pocket. The moment caught Elliot's attention.

     Pull. BANG. Pull. BANG. Pull. BANG.

     The shots rang out, deafening the whole shack. The boys ears rung throwing his mind into different part. A part under dirt cement and locked tight. Back to that night. The Last time . Mom screaming unintelligible words, not able to be made out by the ringing in his ears. The thick crimson that pooled that turned to a brown, rusted stain that mom could never get out of the carpet. Forever a reminder.

     Casings tinked off of the wood, one bounced of the wall near his foot the others to the other side rolling into the center of the room. Then silence.

     Tink. Tink. Tink.

     Elliot blinked. This man, This man was still, standing. Three clean circular holes through his flannel and undershirt blood coating the cloth around it, no wounds, No blood pooling, no collapse his body standing strong with no reaction. Only a lazy motion into his other pocket pulling out a match, striking it to lit a little stubby cigar taking a slow drag. Smoke wafting through the shack. Replacing the smell of gunfire with the that of old tobacco. "You get all that out of your system?"