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mosey
The engine shuts off just before the old door snaps and creaks open.
Soft crunch as boots lower from the car to the floor of the desert wasteland.
Throwing bloody cloth onto the floorboard of the passenger seat behind her, she unholsters her pistol and releases the cylinder. She tucks it between her legs so she don't have to disturb her wounded arm. She just carefully works around her wounded opposite side. She picks out the casings with hammered pins and casually tosses them to the floorboard before replacing them from her belt. She uses the momentum of her hand sliding from one direction to the other to snap the cylinder shut. She knows that's bad for the gun but she don't reckon she'll get much more use out of it anyhow.
She holsters the weapon.
Fumbling which key to jam into the back of the vehicle. She leaves the keys dangling from the back when she figures right and pops the trunk.
She winces, picking up the cadaver and walking it several paces away before dropping it in the dirt.
Turning back, she picks up the gas can and turns it over in the trunk. She grabs her hat out of the passenger seat and puts it on snug before dousing the padded bench and floorboard. She dumps the rest on the hood of the car and she lights a match.
The sun's poking her head over the canyons before she goes to sleep. The tire tracks she carved into the dirt behind her lead up to an inferno for a brief period, as she lights her up and says goodbye to an old friend.
Heaving as she lifts the cadaver, she moseys off yonder. One tired, pained step at a time.
Now, ya'll might pontificate on the nature of a demon, but as she approaches the ornate open coffin, she aint pontificating much of nothing.
With some effort, she struggles to unravel the corpse from the ornate rug she wrapped it in. It lands somewhat crossways and she kicks it into place before straining to lift the lid and slide it into place. One nail at a time, she shuts her tight in the flickering lights of the horsefire and the setting sun.
'Aint no settlin' into recursion,' she ponders aloud, hammering in her last nail, sealin' her fate. 'Aint no settlin' into pain like this neither.'
Her left arm is a constant dead pain down to her elbow, almost like she done rotted out from her shoulder halfway up her neck. She can feel the rot crawling, quite literally, as the dark, living parasites reach from the side of her neck for the sky. Polluting her on upwards and downwards. She walks to the top of the coffin and grabs the chain with her good arm, throwing it over her good shoulder.
'I reckon it's time we mosey on, huh?' she asks the box, not waiting for an answer before dragging it off yonder.
Aint no road where she's going, no sir or ma'am. Aint no trail. Just one mean son of a bitch they call the desert. And beyond that? Reckoning.
Now, you may pontificate the true nature of a reckoning – but I tell you what, sure as you're born she aint pontificating a damn thing as she drags that corpse in a coffin off into them shadows under them stars.
The sum of her parts cain't truly be seent by nobody but herself, willing she opens up them eyes she got on the inside.
Lord willing she opens up them eyes and the creek don't rise.