Page 5 of Afflicted

I glance back over my shoulder, and the feeder is still fucking staring at me. His eyes are that weird rusty red color all the feeders’ eyes are. He’s young, or at least he looks young, maybe 25 or so. He could be 200 for all I know. He’s leaning against the wall, wearing that stupid green military uniform all the feeders wear to make it appear that they have some sort of authority. Someone walks by him and I realize how tall he is. He has to be 6’5” at least.

And he’s still staring at me.

Uneasiness creeps through me as I wonder if he was the one who paused by my bed a few nights ago, who sniffed me out while I was getting myself off. Fuck. I shiver at the thought. Then I realize I’m still staring right back at him.

The horn sounds above us, signaling that it’s time to head over to the clinic, making me jump and diverting my attention for a second. When I glance back at the wall, the feeder is gone. I breathe a sigh of relief. Fucking creep.

Gina hums as we head to the clinic, and I chide myself for finding her positivity irritating. We all have to do what we have to do to get through this, right? I shouldn’t be mad just because she’s trying to make her day a little easier.

The sun is beating down, dark grey storm clouds lining the horizon. Green fields spread out as far as the eye can see, and I allow myself a chuckle. Whenever I see those green fields, I always think of the label on the eggs Mom insisted on buying because she wanted eggs from happy chickens - “free range”.

In the early days after the Affliction took over and destroyed the world, the feeders kept us locked up inside for fear we’d revolt and run away. It was ridiculous and miserable. It didn’t last long, because after a few months of no sunshine or fresh air, we were all anemic and delivering low-quality blood. Low quality blood, sick humans, and by default, weak feeders.

They moved us out into compounds just like this one, where we could get fresh air and sunlight, along with a diet of farm-to-table foods to ensure our blood was of the highest quality. Healthy, happy feeders, and supposedly healthy, happy humans.

I wonder just how happy those free-range chickens really were.

We’re ushered into the clinic and assigned our royal blue reclining chairs behind white curtains, it’s so weird that they put up barriers between us for this but not when we want to shower. Feeder logic, there is none.

Settling down in these blue chairs always reminds me of going to the dentist. Every time it gives me that tiny jolt of almost normality, a distant memory of my old life. I gaze at the fluorescent light above me, watching it flicker ever so slightly. The feeder comes in, dressed in scrubs, thick gloves on. She doesn’t say a word, just gestures for me to give her my arm.

First comes the depo shot, and it barely stings. The feeders say it’s so we don’t have to deal with menstrual hygiene, but I also know the blood of pregnant people can send them insane. They have to know that what happened the other night between the couple in the dorm is bound to happen, no matter how forbidden it is.

She puts the brace around my arm, tightening it almost painfully. “Make a fist,” she says sternly.

I obey, not looking at her. I know the drill. It’s been almost five years of this.

She puts the needle in my arm, and it stings. These fucking feeders all suck at taking blood, a fact so ironic it almost makes me laugh. But then a shiver breaks out down my spine as I think of the alternative harvesting method, the one that’s no longer allowed.

Some girls at school talked about the bite once. One of them insisted her cousin had been with a feeder, and that the bite had been better than sex. There were a whole bunch of folks who got addicted to the high a feeder bite gave them, and the thought makes me sick. Having a feeder touch me in a benign way like this, with gloves while they’re taking blood, that’s bad enough. The idea of letting one touch me intimately, letting one fuck me or bite me, or make me come?

No fucking way.

The curtain pushes aside, and a figure walks in that has me wishing I wasn’t tied down to a chair right now.

It’s the staring feeder from the cafeteria. His rust-red eyes take me in curiously, moving over my body almost languidly. It gives me chills. He’s looking at me in a way that someone who doesn’t know me shouldn’t be. He pushes his dark hair from his forehead, revealing a tattooed hand and more tattoos emerging from the sleeve of his uniform. Even his neck is tattooed, and he has a small silver earring in his right earlobe. I don’t know why it strikes me as strange, a tattooed, pierced feeder, is that even weird? Maybe he was some sort of rockstar before he was turned.

He’s tall, I could see that before, but he’s also just sobig. Broad and muscular, his size so imposing it makes me feel incredibly small and vulnerable. I’d heard that vampires could gain strength from their makers if they were old and powerful, and from the looks of this guy his maker was one of those.

Finally his eyes stop moving all over my body and settle on my face.Wait. Did he just lick his lip?

“Everything alright here?” He has a British accent, a deep voice that’s almost a little husky. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The female feeder nods absently, filling out a chart, writing my number at the top of a form. We’re all just numbers here. No names. Only amongst ourselves.

“Contraception was administered,” she says, adjusting the clipboard in her hand to fill out some lines further down the form, “and we will be taking 500 mls of A+.”

The man nods, his eyes staying on me. His skin has a hint of tan, and when he grits his white teeth behind his full lips, it occurs to me that I’m staring at his mouth. He’s attractive I guess, or he would be if he wasn’t dead and didn’t have freaky red eyes, or fangs.

“I’ll be right back,” the woman says, and rises to her feet, pushing through the curtain, which parts with a metallic hiss.

The man watches her go then turns his attention back to me, his hands staying firmly in his pockets.

There are people just a few feet away, but I feel incredibly fucking alone right now. He’s just staring at me. My throat goes dry and I swallow, trying to produce some saliva so I don’t start coughing everywhere.

“Is there something wrong?” I finally ask him.

He shakes his head, the first movement he’s made with something other than his eyes or his lips. “Not at all.”

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