Bobby groaned. He’d been careless for these few days and he’d paid for it in blood and a pound of flesh. He shuddered when his fingers scraped the ragged wound near his appendix.
Christ, Christ, Christ!
He fucked up, badly. He thought he’d get out of this alive. He really did, but bowled over on his grimy kitchen floor, he wished he had a gun. The cool linoleum against his cheek, Bobby could see how Jean had gotten out. The bedroom had a bad hinge, and sometimes when it was really warm or windy, the door frame would skew and the door would swing free. He’d forgotten. How had he forgotten?!
He lay there for a long time, watching the blood pool from his soaked sweater towards the gaping, dead mouth of his wife of ten years. He had been desperate with fear, her with hunger. All for nothing…
Then, suddenly, at the door: “Your attention: If you are not infected, answer this riddle… Knock knock.”
“Hey…hey!” The pain in his wound flared and he cringed. Jesus. “I’m not infected…”
Fuck it. “Who’s there?”