Nearly Devouring Poor Simpkins Alive

Tobey Colins swore as he turned off the TV, lamenting the constant barrage of depressing news that consumed his wretched existence. He rubbed his aching eyes and slumped further into his seat. The tension and discomfort didn't go away until he closed them. He opened them once more and faced the things that were causing him to suffer: the black tar in the ashtray that governed his life, pictures of his family in England who were either dead or dying of Maurer Syndrome, and the squalor of 124th Street that were visible through the window of his tiny flat.

The ancient television's dim blue glow went off, and the apartment became quiet and dark. A string was absently knotted around Tobey's pale, slender arm. His fingers were smeared with nicotine as he poured his black tar, struck a dirty match, and got ready for his fix with a silver spoon that hung on a chain around his neck.

His euphoric high from injecting the poison into his veins brought to mind his family, stuck in Birmingham and unable to escape the Variants B and C that were prowling around their neighborhood. They were filled with fear of the infected among them in their final emails, which were sent a month ago.

Tobey took a deep breath and thanked himself and his good fortune for managing to scrape together the funds to flee to America. He didn't give thanks to God since, to him, the god who had let hundreds of millions of people to die at the hands of the zombie variants in Europe and Africa was dead. He had everything he needed in his Upper East Side one-room apartment.

Someone knocked on his door. With a heavy groan, Tobey pulled the needle out of his enlarged vein. He mumbled, "I'm coming, I'm coming," as he stood up unsteadily.

"What?" A female voice, muffled, sounded from the other side of the door.

"I promised to come! Christ! With a trembling, loud voice, Tobey yelled. A wave of nausea and blood swept over him as he staggered to the door.

With sunken eyes, he unlocked it after fumbling for the handle. Her face was blurred by the dancing stars in front of him, but when she pushed inside, her words could be heard clearly.

She remarked, "I've seen you before." "I need assistance."

"Who are you?" Tobey clutched his aching head and grumbled.

She answered, "The zombies are in Williamsburg, Brooklyn." "They have my..."

Wheezing, Tobey said, "Don't bloody care." When his eyesight cleared, he saw a slender white woman with needle-marked arms and oxygen-depleted lips that were almost blue. Her once-blond hair lay limp over her shoulders, and her eyes blazed pink. A kindred spirit, she grinned at him.

"What on earth are you asking me to do? Give you cash? Tobey became agitated and snapped.

Her pale brows furrowed as she asked, "Money?" "I simply want to speak with someone." I can't be here by myself. My name is Angela.

Tobey gazed, his hazy brain straining to understand her intent. As Angela approached and studied him, he stood stiff.

Tobey had a sallow face, a hooked nose, and an ordinary height. His jet-black, ear-length hair, which had once been attractive, now framed a face ruined by neglect, addiction, and the epidemic. His pale lips and sunken, unfocused eyes mingled with his pale complexion; his t-shirt, which had not changed in days, held on to his thin body.

Angela grinned at his hideous appearance, approaching their bodies until they were almost touching. She traced down his depressed chest with a long, skinny finger.

"What are you?" Tobey started.

"You gave me permission to enter... Thank you.

Eager to put a stop to the interaction, he shot back, "And I'll let you out."

"You gave me permission to enter... Angela's eyes flashed scarlet as she responded softly, "I don't need money." "I need you."

Softer now, Tobey turned away and said, "I've given up on women." "With all of this death, I know it's lonely in this world, but I can't... not."

Angela's face was pale and famished, but her smile remained. Tobey's blood became cold.

"Foolish... I want you, not your affection!

"No, no, no." With a moan, Tobey backed away and staggered into his black armchair. Her bare feet squeaking on the hardwood floor, she stepped forward. "No, it's not me. For heaven's sake, I'm no good, please, someone else. My blood, not me, is awful.

Angela closed in and cooed, "Come on, honey." She encircled the frail Tobey with her arms, squeezing against him while exposing her blood-stained fangs. The pain only lasts a moment. I swear that I won't kill you by overeating—perhaps just a little blood.

"No, no, no." Sobbing, Tobey shoved her away and fell over the arm of the chair. "Why not me?" Stretched out on the floor, he kicked weakly to get away.

Leaning down and placing a foot on his tummy, Angela yelled, "Stop it." "Come now. Let me in. Like you, I was infected in this way, but I survived. Handle it like a guy.

Tobey screamed, pushing with both hands, "I won't let you," but she pushed his arms away, licked her lips, and eyed his flesh.

She rushed, her jaws ripping through his flimsy shirt and ripped into his chest, pulling off a chunk of muscle as Tobey screamed. His thoughts were racing: let him avoid infection, not become a violent fiend or a mindless husk.

She went to his neck and tore muscle and flesh away from his collarbone. Tobey seized, her saliva burning through his veins, each capillary on the verge of exploding. He prayed for death as she played with his shaking hand.

Angela bit hard and locked her teeth around his pinky. Beyond suffering, Tobey had no emotions. As the eating continued, the woman savored the blood from his hand and chest while avoiding his main veins. He fainted when his thoughts gave up.

With a sly nibble on his ear, Angela muttered, "Thank you." Tobey was covered in his own blood, his eyes were vacant, his chest was still rising, and his heart was still pounding as she stood up.

She turned on the television and added, "I'll leave something for you to watch." She hovered for a moment.

"...this evening's last newscast. Maurer Syndrome victims are not limited to Brooklyn. Do not call the police if you think a loved one is infected; instead, leave right away. Victims that are bitten either die or contract one of the three strains. Do not dial 911; instead, run for your life. Our last transmission is this one. We encourage everyone to relocate to the countryside, where fewer people live, and quit the city. This is a worldwide pandemic and a national catastrophe. Again, nobody is secure from—

Angela turned it off, disregarding Tobey's slow breathing and tears as she stared at the blank screen.

She grumbled, "Nothing good on, anyway," and walked out of the room.