Flesh

A Loving Husband

Up the stairs three at a time, snapping open the holster and drawing his .38, still at full speed when his shoulder hit the door.

Wood splintered and burst and the door flew open.

Nobody.

He ran for the bat-wing doors.

He dove through the doors, tumbled into the kitchen, came up in a squat and took aim.

He didn’t fire.

He didn’t know what he was seeing.

The woman in the red shorts was sprawled on the floor, faceup. Faceup? She didn’t have a face. A chin maybe.

Ron was hunched over her, his face to her belly.

No one else in the kitchen.

The cellar door stood open.

“Ron? Ron, which way did he go?”

Ron lifted his head. A bleeding patch of his wife’s flesh came with it, clamped in his teeth, stretching and tearing off. He sat up straight. He stared back at Jake. His eyes were calm. He calmly chewed. Then he reached back for the shotgun.