The New Flesh

The boxer danced from side-to-side, bobbing and weaving as she jabbed at the shadow on the wall. Her success allowed her to have the most hi-tech gym equipment money could buy, yet she rarely used it; she found shadow boxing to be the best form of training, even more effective than a traditional sparring partner. She was good, and her record proved it. Her possessions also proved it. The six-bedroom house, the cars, the jewelry. She had it all. It was only a matter of time before someone tried to take it.

She was about to reach for her towel when a voice behind her said, “Don’t move.”

Against the stranger’s command, she turned around.

“I said don’t move, are you deaf?”

The man in the ski mask and black jacket was not tall, and not very big, but he had a gun. In his other hand was a pillow case full of her belongings.

“Where’s the loot?” the man said.

“I don’t have any,” the boxer told him.

The man scoffed. “Yeah, right. Rich broad like you? You probably got a safe around here somewhere loaded with cash, and I want it. Now!”

He thrust the gun towards her, but the boxer didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled.

“You’ve made a big mistake,” she said.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because I’m not alone.”

The man watched as the boxer’s shadow grew larger behind her, so large it filled the eight-foot-high wall. Then it peeled itself off the bricks and stepped onto the floor.

“Jesus!” the man gasped as the shadow moved toward him.

He raised the gun and fired, but the faceless, featureless thing kept coming. He backed up against the opposite wall, and unloaded the clip, putting all six bullets into the gut of the monster’s body. He thought he heard it laugh as its long arms reached for him and grabbed him by the neck. The burglar dropped the gun and the bag, grabbed the pitch black wrists and tried to pry them off. But the thing was too strong, solid as the brick that spawned it.

It wrapped its fingers around his throat, and squeezed.

The boxer wiped the sweat from her face and flung the towel over her shoulder. She opened a bottle of water and took a drink as she watched her partner choke the last breaths of life from the intruder’s limp body. “Don’t wear yourself out,” she said. “We still have one more round of sparring left.”

"Intruder"
Copyright: © 2009 Chris Reed

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Chris Reed lives in Davison , MI , with his wife and two children. His fiction and poetry have appeared in a variety of small press publications including Black Ink Horror, Aberrant Dreams, and Killer-Works.com. Aside from writing, Chris enjoys frozen pizza, Seinfeld reruns, and hockey fights. He is also the artist/writer/creator of Used Addictions, a comic book about a cigarette butt, an empty wine bottle, and a used condom. Visit his website: www.ChrisReedFiction.com.