Can I play your games without you?

Tarry had never been bitten before. She supposed, as she ran desperately through the dark streets dotted with orange orbs of lamplight, that very few people had.
Her neck hurt and her legs ached, but she pressed on. She could feel the blood trickling down her collarbone like a broken tap, and she had visions of teeth-reshaping parlors hidden behind leafy trees, and long-fingered hands practiced in the art of pretending, and she was so wrapped up with thoughts about minty perfume and silk jackets that she didn't notice where she was running. Her foot slipped on a red apple and she fell spectacularly into a little alley.
"I'm sorry. I was playing with that."
Tarry groaned and opened her eyes.
There seemed to be someone sitting next to a large dumpster. "Oh!" She scrambled up, wincing as the searing pain in her head and the throbbing in her foot made her slump against the wall.
"You could play too if you like."
"What?" she panted, "Who are you?"
The person didn't answer so she said, "I've just been bitten," and she squinted harder, intent on working out who she had just revealed this atrocity to.
"How awful. Want some?"
"Can you not come into the lamplight?" Tarry grumbled. She wanted to know if she really did desire whatever was being offered, especially if it was a purple cushion or a beaded emerald bracelet.
"Sorry!" she exclaimed when the mysterious person limped into view. It was the most horrendous sight she had ever laid eyes on and she half-wished she had had stayed in the cemetery.
The person appeared to be male, with no hair anywhere whatsoever (although she really couldn't tell if he was bald all over as he wore pants and she didn't have the strength at the moment to wrestle them off) and he had red and black sores covering his exposed skin that looked like he had been repeatedly stabbed with a pen. Blood smeared his mouth, arms and hands, dark circles framed his eyes and his skin seemed to be a faint green colour.
Tarry felt her heart sink. He had obviously been exposed to some radioactive disease that was highly toxic and contagious, and here she was, breathing in all his poisonous fumes. Then her eyes fell on the item in his hand.
"What is that?"
It looked like a chunk of flesh.
"This?" the hideous male asked with an air of surprise.
Tarry nodded, too faint to speak. She noticed he was missing half of his fingers and that the blood smears on his arms were actually wounds. Great, big, gaping wounds.
The monstrous male smiled, "We could share."
Tarry whispered, "No," and closed her eyes in mortification. She said quietly, "You're Joseph. Mr Borkgam's son."
She waited, hoping to ignite some recognition into the situation and avoid becoming his next meal.
"No," said the mutant boy, "I'm a zombie."