The Impaler

Chapter 91

Markham was sure he’d lost consciousness; was vaguely aware of a loud explosion in front of his face—but then the pain, in a burst of bloodred stars, shot across his nose and sent him flying backwards. Something happened next—blurry movement and a loud buzzing as the sky threatened to iris into black—and then the taste of blood in his throat brought him back, started him coughing.

He rolled onto his stomach, shook the cobwebs from his skull, and spat into the grass. The buzzing in his ears was replaced by ringing, and something whispered of a blink forward in time—how long a blink, he wasn’t sure. One part of his brain told him his nose was broken, while another part registered his gun lying a few feet away. Instinctively he crawled toward it, his hand reaching for the warm barrel when suddenly, underneath the ringing, he thought he heard the footsteps crunching in the grass.

And talking? Did I just hear someone talking?

Markham turned and saw the Impaler staggering out into the field beyond the old oak tree. He grabbed his gun and rose on all fours. A wave of pain at the bridge of his nose sent him reeling, but he found his feet and stumbled toward the tree—took cover and peered around it to discover the Im-paler had slowed. He could see him clearly now in the open field—naked, about thirty yards away, his muscular flesh a milky gray in the moonlight. He was unarmed.

Markham whirled from around the tree, his empty gun trained on the man’s back. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” he shouted, but the Impaler seemed to ignore him—staggered a few more steps and then sank to his knees.

Markham lowered his gun and watched in fascination as the man in the field began clawing upwards at the open air. He struggled to stand; and when he did, he lifted his left foot and dropped it quickly. He repeated the motion with his right and then his left again, stepping in place over and over as if he were trying to climb an invisible staircase. Then all at once he stopped, stood motionless, and fell face-first into the grass.

Markham rushed to his side and turned him over, pulling back immediately when he saw the blood gushing from the hole under the young man’s right eye. He was handsome, Markham thought, suddenly detached; younger than he expected, too—but his breathing was shallow, and his lips moved as if trying to speak.

“It’s over,” Markham whispered. But it was clear the Im-paler didn’t hear him, didn’t see him either; for the young man seemed to gaze past him and up toward the sky.

“Come back,” he managed to say at last. “Come back.”