Prophet of Destruction, Angel of Death

Ch. 7: A Broken Man

A/n: Karma's a bitch.

Several weeks had passed since the bloodbath. Carson Wells was dead. Anton had made good on his vow to kill him. It was amusing to see how Wells had abandoned so much just for money. Chigurh himself was driving down a quiet suburban street after having get away with yet another murder. Anton didn't know her name, only that she was the widow of the man he'd been ordered to track down. Moss's wife. Her refusal to call her fate had brought back memories of Lucy McCarthy. On both occasions, the women had seemed, not fearful for their lives, but pity for the path he, Anton Chigurh, had chosen for himself. If Anton was capable of feeling fear, he didn't then.

But it changed in about ten seconds…

He never saw the car coming when the accident happened. All he felt was a sudden jolt and breaking glass. Anton stumbled out of the car, panting. He collapsed, dazed, onto the curb, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt. His killing-arm was broken so badly that bone was protruding through the skin. What would become of him if this injury meant he would never kill again? His head spinning, he bribed a teenage boy for his shirt so he could make a sling for his arm.

"When the help gets here, tell them you didn't see me. I was already gone," he told the teen. Anton the shakily rose to his feet and stumbled down the street in the opposite direction of the sirens that were becoming more and more distinct. Chigurh sighed, watching the sun set as he walked. The sun had cast a blood-red glow on the horizon.

You were right, Lucy, Anton thought. You were right.