The Impulse, Chapter 2
I guess I'm serializing this after all
This is the second chapter of a new book by me. You can read Chapter 1 here.
No flesh shall be spared.
That was from the Book of Matthew. Slater couldn’t recall the exact chapter and verse. He only knew that it came from a passage in which Jesus foretold a coming tribulation. It was meant to illustrate that the trials of the coming age would be so arduous that it would require God’s direct intervention for even the elect to survive.
It was also from a movie, he thought in passing.
Slater had not read the Bible or been to church since he was a teenager, but the memory of that verse, and its subsequent interpretation by his youth pastor, transmitted to him like a radio broadcast through the static of a fading signal. He heard just enough, remembered just enough.
Did the Impulse he now felt come from God, then? Or was its origin more diabolical?
Whether sacred or satanic, or some third unknowable source outside the binary of western religious thought, it was impossible for Slater to resist its pull. Like a cluster of celestial detritus in the grip of gravity, he moved, axe in hand, toward the violence of the inevitability he now embodied. He tromped down the mountain, not bothering to use the trail. His heavy footballs crushed fallen branches and dead leaves.
Much in the same way, the machinations of an uncaring universe had trampled all that was good in his life. It started when the sawmill where he worked ceased operations and he lost the job he’d held for almost two decades. Despite the promises of state and local politicians from both parties, the mill never reopened. Every rejected job application and past-due bill in the mail chipped away more and more of his self-worth.
He had the cabin—an old family homestead, already paid for and left to him by his parents, but Meredith insisted that it was no place to raise their children. Ultimately, after the foreclosure of their house in town, she took the twins to live with her mother, while he retreated up the mountain.
One might suspect that his economic and marital woes somehow made him a prime candidate for the influence of the dark transmission he received. Indeed, Slater experienced days where the absence of Meredith and the twins gouged him so deeply that he no longer felt human. In truth, however, the workings of the Impulse were and always would be mysterious. Many men and women suffered losses like those Slater endured and they didn’t turn to violence.
Slater himself gave no such thought as to why he trod down the mountain with an intent to kill. He only proceeded through the underbrush and branches with this newfound purpose leading the way.
Little of the man aside from his burly vessel remained. Even the memories of his family and his inability to provide for them felt as if they belonged to someone else. They were projected at him in low-res images from a great distance with faint, low-quality audio. He felt none of the pain these recollections usually brought him. Nor did he feel any physical pain or soreness. Although, he’d neglected to put on his boots, the bottoms of his feet only felt dull pressure whenever he stepped on something sharp or coarse. His muscles felt only echoes of the exertion they should have experienced as he descended the mountain carrying the heavy axe.
At the base of the mountain, he pushed through the last stretch of foliage and emerged on the gravelly shoulder of State Route 73. With the Henshaw Valley Falls campground across the way in his sights, he kept going, stepping onto the highway without bothering to look. By the time the headlights of the oncoming vehicle bathed him in a flood of white, it was too late for him to get out of its way.
The impact was sudden and severe, tossing his body over the hood and windshield, and then over the roof. He landed with a hard splat back on the pavement and relaxed his grip on the axe as he fell still. The vehicle screeched to a halt several yards ahead. Its brake lights splashed redness across his field of vision. Or perhaps that was just the blood seeping into his eyes.
I decided to serialize this slasher here on my Substack. You can read the first bit here. For now, I’m calling the book The Impulse. My friend, author Judith Sonnet, thinks it’s a good title. I agree, but after Barn Door to Hell and Goddamn Graveyard Zombies, it doesn’t feel high concept enough. With the right cover and elevator pitch, I suppose that doesn’t matter.
I have more written, but I felt like this was enough for now. I still don’t have an outline or an idea of where the larger story will go. That’s because it can go so many ways. This is the first time in a long time where I have multiple ideas for the story’s future direction. It’s kind of exciting! Normally, I have one path in mind from pretty early on, but this time? So many possible paths! I’m thinking of different ways to take the story every day.
I almost made it a Choose Your Own Adventure, but the more I thought about that, the more it seemed like a pain in the ass. So, I won’t be doing that.
Anyway, I hope you like it, and I hope you’re okay with me serializing something instead of putting out regular short stories. I intend to post these weekly - every Monday, like the old newsletters.
Currently reading: A Dark Matter by Peter Straub
Currently watching: Lost on Netflix.
Revisiting Lost is such a fun experience. The show is even better than I remember, and it’s got a lot of personal memories tied up in it. While Jean and I were courting, we watched a lot of Lost. Early in our relationship, she bought me the box set of Season 3. That season’s ending left me feeling as desperate as Jack in those final moments. “We have go back,” indeed.
Anyway, until next time …