The Impulse, Chapter 4
Plus, New Book on Kindle
Happy Memorial Day! Here's Chapter 4 of my slasher novel, The Impulse. Chapters 1-3 are in the archive.
Lauren watched as her boyfriend’s headless body slumped, first to its knees and then to its side. The lifeless vessel came to rest beside the head it had so recently lost and squirted crimson jets as its heart pumped out the last of its beats.
She ran around the vehicle, heading for the driver’s door instead of the passenger side where she’d been sitting. The man with the axe followed. He made purposeful, deliberate strides toward her. He was in no hurry despite her sitting behind the wheel of an SUV. It was as if he somehow knew he would catch up eventually. Vehicles inevitably run out of fuel. Victims run out of places to hide, and they can only run so far for so long. In theory, she could fight back, but she would stand little chance against a gargantuan like the man in pursuit.
Lauren cranked the keys, and the ignition shrieked. The engine was already running, and keying the ignition was unnecessary.
She grabbed the gearshift and worked the pedals, putting the SUV into first.
The man was standing up against the trunk now, rearing back with the axe. The SUV was rolling forward but not fast enough. She stomped the clutch and shifted into second, pressed her foot on the gas pedal. The man who’d killed her boyfriend held the axe high in both hands.
Lauren was picking up speed, creating space between her vehicle and the axeman, ready to go into third gear. She glanced up at the rearview in time to watch him hurl the axe at her back window.
She had no time to brace herself for the impact and the awful sound that accompanied it. When the axe struck the glass, she swerved. Beads of glass sprayed the interior, clattering across the camping gear in the trunk, raining onto the backseat, and showering her hair.
The SUV veered off the road, crashing through brambles and branches, bounding over stones and sloshing through stagnant puddles. It came to a jerky stop at the muddy edge of a pond. Filthy water splashed the windshield, turning it into a translucent black curtain. Lauren thumped back and forth in her seat, skinning her forearms against the deploying airbag.
The vehicle settled, and she cried out in frustration, grief, and fear. The pain would come later—if she lived long enough for the adrenaline to wear off.
Behind her, the hulking figure stood at the edge of the woods, surveying the destruction. She held still, even going as far as to hold her breath.
Please walk away. Please think I’m dead. Please. . .
He didn’t walk away. He walked toward her.
Lauren whimpered and fumbled for her seatbelt. The car was a lost cause, and she needed to get out of it immediately. The man tromped into the woods, following the path her crashing car had made. She jammed her finger into the buckle, releasing the seatbelt, and twisted out of the restraint.
The man kept coming, no indication at all that he’d just been hit by a car. He moved as able-bodied as one uninjured. It wasn’t possible and yet it was happening.
He was only twenty paces away.
Freed from the seatbelt, she snatched the door handle and pulled, it didn’t give.
“Oh God, oh God!”
Fifteen paces.
She reached for the door lock and pulled it up.
The man was coming closer, in no hurry at all. His legs moved in self-assured strides, knowing he would catch up to her, that she couldn’t escape him.
She pushed the door open and staggered out of the car. She swept her gaze around the woods and spotted the axe which had smashed into her back window. It had dislodged itself on the way through underbrush and now lay halfway between Lauren and the man who’d killed Walt.
She bit her lip and contemplated her next action. Despite the inner screams urging her to run away, she sprinted toward the weapon.
The man was nearly upon it but still moving at a walk. She could make it if he didn’t break into a surprise run. He reached forward with a meaty paw, still striding forward, the axe in his sights.
She swiped the weapon from its resting place and held it in both hands.
“Stay back, motherfucker!”
To the killer’s credit, he did stop. He cocked his head to the side like a dog. His husky breathing reminded her of the time her little brother had pneumonia, all wheezy and junky.
They stood across from each other like two gunslingers.
Her arms trembled, while he stood still as stone.
He reached for her, and she swung the axe. Its blade sunk into his left pectoral. When she yanked it free, a gout of blood sprayed from the wound. She backpedaled but couldn’t avoid all the warm, sticky fluid.
The killer dropped like a sack of flour and lay still. She raised the axe again and waited. Her arms were tired and getting sore, but she willed herself to hold them steadily. She chewed into her bottom lip and watched the fallen body for any sign of life, a twitch of the fingers, anything.
He didn’t move. The blood flow slowed, then ceased.
She half-laughed, half-cried as she tossed the axe aside and ran away from her smashed and smoking car, back toward the road.
Behind her, unseen, the fingers of Slater Mars started twitching.
Stay tuned for Chapter 5. If you'd like to support me beyond subscribing to this Substack, you can pick up my newest book, Goddamn Graveyard Zombies, on Kindle (paperback is still in production).