Allison reached out and grabbed the woman’s hand. “Thank you. For everything. For everything you have done for me.”
“You are welcome, sweetie, so welcome,” Sandra replied as she wrapped Allison in a hug.
That night after dinner Sandra, Dave, and Allison huddled in the living room around a radio listening to the nightly news. Dave explained to Allison that most television stations were still shut down and their antenna couldn’t get the ones that were on air to come in, so they relied on the radio. The radio announcer spoke of “cleared states” and “cleared countries.” He also spoke of areas that were still “contaminated” and “off limits.” Some infected areas were still so infested they were on lockdown. In areas with fewer Infected, people led normal lives. If you count having an armed Collector-enforced curfew normal.
After the announcer was done listing the areas whose lockdowns were recently lifted, he flowed into the next segment:
“I have a special guest tonight who would like to speak on the continuing dangers of attempting to engage an infected party,” the voice over the radio said. “His name is Sam Clinton, a farmer whose young son was killed a few months ago while the boy attempted to help a female Infected.”
Sam spoke with a quiver in his voice, “My son was only ten, and he had a heart of gold. He wanted to help everyone. He was in our orchard, picking apples, and he saw a loner on the edge of our land. She was on the opposite side of the electric fence. Jake would have been safe, had he just stayed, had he not . . .” Sam was weeping now.
“I know this is difficult, Mr. Clinton. I am sorry for your loss. The pain you are experiencing is unimaginable. I can’t even begin to relate to how you are feeling. All I can say is I’m sorry. Please take your time and continue on when you are ready.”
“My son had apparently seen her on other days. He told his brother, but made him swear not to tell. He knew we would call the authorities and the Collectors would take her away. He didn’t feel that was right. He had heard awful stories of things they did to the infected people and—” Sam was cut off by static.
“Just some technical difficulty, folks. We are back again with Mr. Sam Clinton, a farmer who recently lost his son in an attack by a female Infected. Go on, Mr. Clinton.”
Sam cleared his throat. “Um, yeah. I was saying, my son, he went towards the woman. He wanted to help her.”
“What happened when your son reached the female Infected, Mr. Clinton?” the host asked, trying to keep the man on track.
The man’s voice was filled with emotion when he replied, “I was walking out of our barn as he reached the fence. I screamed at him to stop. To turn around. To run. But he didn’t listen. He reached his arm through our electric fence, trying to hand the woman an app—”
“The Infected,” the host interrupted.
“Yes, the infected woman. He was trying to hand her an apple. I ran towards him, I was trying to stop him. As he reached his hand through the fence she grabbed his arm, trying to pull him through. I could hear him screaming, I could hear the fence buzzing as he was being shocked, I could see blood running down the front of the woman. My son’s blood. She had his arm in her mouth . . .” Sam’s voice faded away.
Allison’s body stiffened, warmth spread from her core to the rest of her body. Intense heat engulfed her. Her breathing quickened as she fell back stiffly onto the hardwood floor.
Dave was by her side in an instant with his hands on her shoulders. Allison gazed up at him, watching his lips move but only hearing the roar inside her own head. Her vision blurred as Sandra appeared in her view, slipping a pillow under her head.
Allison was in the woods, on the edge of a field, crouching down. There was a warm liquid in her mouth; it tasted of metal. It was so good. She heard the screams and crying of a young child. Her heart quickened as excitement grew at her core, pushing its way to the surface. Adrenaline surged each time the child screamed. She enjoyed his fear; she craved it. Flannel fabric in her hands. No, it wasn’t just fabric, it was a shirt, it was someone’s arm. Allison was biting the arm, pulling on it with her hands, trying to get her hands on the person attached to it. Something was blocking her way, so she just kept jerking on the arm and piercing it with her teeth.
She ripped away chunks of flesh, swallowing them, barely chewing. Inflicting pain was the only thing to relieve her anger, the heat, the burn, the anguish.
She heard a man’s voice and felt a powerful pull on the arm she had in her grasp but she held on. The child stopped crying, stopped screaming. Disappointment rolled over Allison as his cries halted, followed by a wave of rage. It was hers. She wanted it; she needed it to take the heat away, to release.
She stood from her crouching position and began jerking on the arm over and over and over. A loud buzzing sound crackled with she tug, like the sound the bug zapper on her back porch would make when bugs flew into its enticing glow. Allison dug her nails into the arm and sank back on her heels. She wouldn’t let go; she would never let go. Her bones buzzed with an electric pulse, but she pushed through the pain, seeking meat.
She was being pulled; she wasn’t strong enough to hold on to the arm, but she wasn’t letting go. It was hers; it belonged to her. A shock
