No Country for Old Men Page #11

The street is empty.

He waits, at the ready for whatever might emerge from the

alley mouth a short block away.

Long beat. Stillness.

A panicky thought brings his look and the shotgun swinging

back around:
the man could round the block the other way.

Empty street.

Two empty streets: Moss doesn't know which way to cover,

which way to go.

He stands looking each way, trying to devise a plan. No basis

for a plan.

Quiet hesitation.

Now, a sound:
engine noise.

An old pickup rounds a corner two blocks up. It rattles toward

him.

Moss lowers the shotgun. He keeps it to the hidden side of

his body.

The pickup dutifully stops at a flashing red traffic light.

It comes on through the intersection.

Moss strides out into the street. He swings the shotgun up

and gives the driver a raised palm to halt.

INT. PICKUP/EXT. EAGLE PASS STREET - NIGHT

The truck stops and Moss opens the passenger door and swings

the case in and climbs in after.

The driver, an older man, gapes at him, frightened.

MOSS:

I'm not going to hurt you. I need

you to --

The windshield stars.

A quick second round pushes part of the windshield in.

Rounds come in without pause, cracking sheet metal, blowing

the cab's rear window into the truckbed, twisting the rear-

view.

A round seems to have caught the driver in the throat: a

gurgling scream as he claws at his windpipe, blowing out

blood.

Moss, quicker to react, has already ducked below the dash.

A snap of the driver's head and a new freshet of blood from

a shot to the head. The screams turn to low gurgles.

Moss, jammed almost in to the driver's lap, frantically gropes

for the shift.

He throws the pickup into drive and stamps at the accelerator,

driving blind as bullets continue to pour in.

He raises his head enough to see his side-view. It shows

sluing, bouncing, empty street, rough guide for steering.

A tremendous jounce up onto the curb then off it, the driver's

body swaying in its restraint.

The passenger side window shatters: we are passing the gunman.

Now Moss sits up to steer looking out front. Behind him

through the shot-out back window the dark street is suddenly

punctured by muzzleflash. It comes, for the first time, with

a report:
the low chug of the muted shotgun.

Rattle of shot against sheet metal.

Moss floors the gas to roar into a turn. The street sweeping

out of view behind him produces one more chugging muzzleflash.

EXT. EAGLE PASS STREET - NIGHT

The pickup bounces but Moss, sitting fully up, can now steer.

He goes half the length of the block and then yanks the wheel

hard, braking. The pickup smashes a parked car and jacks

around to a halt.

Moss emerges from the pickup with his shotgun and goes to

the sidewalk and backtracks. He covers behind a parked car.

He sits leaning back against the car, waiting.

His point-of-view: his own reflection in the facing

storefront, a lot of the driver's blood on him.

He sinks lower.

A long beat.

Footsteps. They approach without hurry.

A gritty boot turn at the corner. The footsteps come closer

still.

They pass and recede toward the pickup.

We cut to Chigurh approaching the pickup, shotgun held at

ease across his body.

He slows.

Moss:
he hears the slowing steps. He tightens his grip on

his shotgun and tenses.

Chigurh:
slowing further, he sees:

Bloody boot prints outside the passenger door.

Moss rises.

Chigurh is turning.

He dives as, behind him, Moss fires.

Shot peppers two parked cars -- the one Moss rammed and the

one behind.

Chigurh dived between them: hit or not?

Moss advances down the middle of the street. He angles his

head:
anything under the cars?

He fires twice. Buckshot claws up the pavement and the car

bodies and tires, and the cars sink hissing to their rims.

Moss crosses to the far curb, still advancing. No one behind

the cars.

He looks up and down the street.

Nothing to see.

He goes to the pickup truck, driver's side. He opens the

door and reaches over the driver's corpse for his lap belt.

EXT. EAGLE PASS BORDER AREA - NIGHT

Deserted.

The pickup truck rattles into frame.

Moss emerges. He hoists out the case. He leaves the shotgun.

It is very quiet.

He looks around.

The Rio Grande bridge.

Moss walks unsteadily toward it, pressing his free hand to

his side.

A thought stops him. He turns.

His bloody boot prints point at him like comic book clues.

His shoulders sag.

EXT. RIO GRANDE BRIDGE - NIGHT

Minutes later. Moss heads down the right-hand walkway in

stockinged feet, boots tucked into his belt.

He turns and looks back toward the U.S. side.

Empty walkway.

He proceeds on. Three youths are approaching from the Mexican

side. Fart types, they are laughing and walking unsteadily.

As they approach they gape at Moss, covered with blood.

The lead boy, holding a beer, wears a light coat.

MOSS:

I'll give you five hundred bucks for

your shirt and your coat.

The three boys stare at him.

At length:

YOUTH:

Let's see the money.

Moss unpeels bills from a moist wad. The top one is bloody.

SECOND YOUTH:

...Were you in a car accident?

MOSS:

Yeah.

YOUTH:

Okay, lemme have the money.

MOSS:

It's right here. Give me the coat.

YOUTH:

Lemme hold the money.

Moss does.

MOSS:

Gimme the clothes.

The youth starts to peel them.

MOSS:

...And let me have your beer.

YOUTH:

...How much?

SECOND YOUTH:

Brian. Give him the beer.

MINUTES LATER:

The boys are receding. Moss pours the beer over his head,

rubbing blood away.

He opens his shirt. He inspects the wounds in his midriff,

entrance and exit. Pulsing blood laps weakly out. He shrugs

off his shirt, wraps it around his waist and knots it.

He starts to put on the new shirt. Something stops him. He

pauses.

He vomits into the roadbed.

He straightens slowly and puts on the new shirt.

He looks out.

He is not yet over the river: wind stirs the cane on the

bank.

He looks up:
Chain-link fence encloses the walkway to a height

of about twelve feet, curling inward at the top.

He looks down the walkway. The three boys are distant figures.

He looks up the walkway.

A few paces up a light pole stanchion stands flush to the

guardrail that separates road and walkway.

He goes to the stanchion and uses it to hoist himself onto

the guardrail, his free hand holding the case.

Standing on top of the curved metal rail and holding the

post for balance, he kneebends down and up and heaves the

case.

It sails clear of the chain-link fence. A short beat and we

hear a thump.

Moss pants for a moment, recovering from the strain of the

toss. He eases himself off the guardrail and goes to the

fence and looks at the bank below. One gnarled tree stands

out in the cane. The case, wherever it landed, is not visible.

EXT. GUARDSHACK MEXICAN SIDE - NIGHT

There is a lighted guardshack at the end of the walkway.

Inside, a uniformed guard.

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