He remembered the man who one night had climbed to the top of the light post in front of the house and, while Robert Neville had watched through the peephole, had leaped into space, waving his arms frantically. Neville hadn’t been able to explain it at the time, but now the answer seemed obvious. The man had thought he was a bat.
Neville sat looking at the half-finished drink, a thin smile fastened to his lips.
So, he thought, slowly, surely, we find out about them. Find out that they are no invincible race. Far from it; they are a highly perishable race requiring the strictest of physical conditions for the furtherance of their Godforsaken existence.
He put the drink down on the table.
I don’t need it, he thought. My emotions don’t need feeding any more. I don’t need liquor for forgetting or for escaping. I don’t have to escape from anything. Not now.
For the first time since the dog had died he smiled and felt within himself a quiet, well-modulated satisfaction. There were still many things to learn, but not so many as before. Strangely, life was becoming almost bearable. I don the robe of hermit without a cry, he thought.
On the phonograph, music played, quiet and unhurried.
Outside, the vampires waited.
PART III: June 1978
Chapter Fifteen
HE WAS OUT HUNTING for Cortman. It had become a relaxing hobby, hunting for Cortman; one of the few diversions left to him. On those days when he didn’t care to leave the neighborhood and there was no demanding work to be done on the house, he would search. Under cars, behind bushes, under houses, up fireplaces, in closets, under beds, in refrigerators; any place into which a moderately corpulent male body could conceivably be squeezed.
Ben Cortman could be in any one of those places at one time or another. He changed his hiding place constantly. Neville felt certain that Cortman knew he was singled out for capture. He felt, further, that Cortman relished the peril of it. If the phrase were not such an obvious anachronism, Neville would have said that Ben Cortman had a zest for life. Sometimes he thought Cortman was happier now than he ever had been before.
Neville ambled slowly up Compton Boulevard toward the next house he meant to search. An uneventful morning had passed. Cortman was not found, even though Neville knew he was somewhere in the neighborhood. He had to be, because he was always the first one at the house at night. The other ones were almost always strangers. Their turnover was great, because they invariably stayed in the neighborhood and Neville found them and destroyed them. Not Cortman.
As he strolled, Neville wondered again what he’d do if he found Cortman. True, his plan had always been the same: immediate disposal. But that was on the surface. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy. Oh, it wasn’t that he felt anything toward Cortman. It wasn’t even that Cortman represented a part of the past. The past was dead and he knew it and accepted it.
No, it wasn’t either of those things. What it probably was, Neville decided, was that he didn’t want to cut off a recreational activity. The rest were such dull, robot-like creatures. Ben, at least, had some imagination. For some reason, his brain hadn’t weakened like the others. It could be, Neville often theorized, that Ben Cortman was born to be dead. Undead, that is, he thought, a wry smile playing on his full lips.
It no longer occurred to him that Cortman was out to kill him. That was a negligible menace.
Neville sank down on the next porch with a slow groan. Then, reaching lethargically into his pocket, he took out his pipe. With an idle thumb he tamped rough tobacco shreds down into the pipe bowl. In a few moments smoke swirls were floating lazily, about his head in the warm, still air.
It was a bigger, more relaxed Neville that gazed out across the wide field on the other side of the boulevard. An evenly paced hermit life had increased his weight to 230 pounds. His face was full, his body broad and muscular underneath the loose-fitting denim he wore. He had long before given up shaving. Only rarely did he crop his thick blond beard, so that it remained two to three inches from his skin. His hair was thinning and was long and straggly. Set in the deep tan of his face, his blue eyes were calm and unexcitable.
He leaned back against the brick step, puffing out slow clouds of smoke. Far out across that field he knew there was still a depression in the ground where he had buried Virginia, where she had unburied herself. But knowing it brought no glimmer of reflective sorrow to his eyes. Rather than go on suffering, he had learned to stultify himself to introspection. Time had lost its multidimensional scope. There was only the present for Robert Neville; a present based on day-to-day survival, marked by neither heights of joy nor depths of despair. I am predominantly vegetable, he often thought to himself. That was the way he wanted it.
Robert Neville sat gazing at the white spot out in the field for several minutes before he realized that it was moving.
His eyes blinked once and the skin tightened over his face. He made a slight sound in his throat, a sound of doubting question. Then, standing up, he raised his left hand to shade the sunlight from his eyes.
His teeth bit convulsively into the pipestem.
A woman.
He didn’t even try to catch the pipe when it fell from his mouth as his jaw went slack. For a long, breathless moment, he stood there on the porch step, staring.
He closed his eyes, opened them. She was still there. Robert Neville felt the increasing thud in his chest as he watched the woman.
She didn’t see him. Her head was down as she walked across the long field. He could see her reddish hair blowing in the breeze, her arms swinging loosely at her sides. His throat moved. It was such an incredible sight after three years that his mind could not assimilate it. He kept blinking and staring as he stood motionless in the shade of the house.
A woman. Alive. In the daylight.
He stood, mouth partly open, gaping at the woman. She was young, he could see now as she came closer; probably in her twenties. She wore a wrinkled and dirty white dress. She was very tan, her hair was red. In the dead silence of the afternoon Neville thought he heard the crunch of her shoes in the long grass.
I’ve gone mad. The words presented themselves abruptly. He felt less shock at that possibility than he did at the notion that she was real. He had, in fact, been vaguely preparing himself for just such a delusion. It seemed feasible. The man who died of thirst saw mirages of lakes. Why shouldn’t a man who thirsted for companionship see a woman walking in the sun?
He started suddenly. No, it wasn’t that. For, unless his delusion had sound as well as sight, he now heard her walking through the grass. He knew it was real. The movement of her hair, of her arms. She still looked at the ground. Who was she? Where was she going? Where had she been?
He didn’t know what welled up in him. It was too quick to analyze, an instinct that broke through every barrier of time-erected reserve.
His left arm went up.
“Hi!” he cried. He jumped down to the sidewalk. “Hi, there!”
A moment of sudden, complete silence. Her head jerked up and they looked at each other. Alive, he thought. Alive!
He wanted to shout more, but he felt suddenly choked up. His tongue felt wooden, his brain refused to function. Alive. The word kept repeating itself in his mind, Alive, alive, alive.
With a sudden twisting motion the young woman turned and began running wildly back across the field.
For a moment Neville stood there twitching, uncertain of what to do. Then his heart seemed to burst and he lunged across the sidewalk. His boots jolted down into the street and thudded across.
“Wait!” he heard himself cry.
The woman did not wait. He saw her bronze legs pumping as she fled across the uneven surface of the field. And suddenly he realized that words could not stop her. He thought of how shocked he had been at seeing her. How much more shocked she must have felt hearing a sudden shout end long silence and seeing a great, bearded man waving at her!
His legs drove him up over the other curb and into the
field. His heart was pounding heavily now. She’s alive! He couldn’t stop thinking that. Alive. A woman alive!
She couldn’t run as fast as he could. Almost immediately Neville began catching up with her. She glanced back over her shoulder with terrified eyes.
“I won’t hurt you!” he cried, but she kept running.
Suddenly she tripped and went crashing down on one knee. Her face turned again and he saw the twisted fright on it.
“I won’t hurt you!” he yelled again.
With a desperate lunge she regained her footing and ran on.
No sound now but the sound of her shoes and his boots thrashing through the heavy grass. He began jumping over the grass to avoid its impending height and gained more ground. The skirt of her dress whipped against the grass, holding her back.
“Stop!” he cried, again, but more from instinct than with any hope that she would stop.
She didn’t. She ran still faster and, gritting his teeth, Neville put another burst of speed into his pursuit. He followed in a straight line as the girl weaved across the field, her light reddish hair billowing behind her.
Now he was so close he could hear her tortured breathing. He didn’t like to frighten her, but he couldn’t stop now. Everything else in the world seemed to have fallen from view but her. He had to catch her.
His long, powerful legs pistoned on, his boots thudded on the earth.
Another stretch of field. The two of them ran, panting. She glanced back at him again to see how close he was. He didn’t realize how frightening he looked; six foot three in his boots, a gigantic bearded man with an intent look.
Now his hand lurched out and he caught her by the right shoulder.
With a gasping scream the young woman twisted away and stumbled to the side. Losing balance, she fell on one hip on the rocky ground. Neville jumped forward to help her up. She scuttled back over the ground and tried to get up, but she slipped and fell again, this time on her back. Her skirt jerked up over her knees. She shoved herself up with a breathless whimper, her dark eyes terrified.
“Here,” he gasped, reaching out his hand.
She slapped it aside with a slight cry and struggled to her feet. He caught her by the arm and her free hand lashed out, raking jagged nails across his forehead and right temple. With a grunt he jerked back his arm and she whirled and began running again.
Neville jumped forward again and caught her by the shoulders.
“What are you afraid-”
He couldn’t finish. Her hand drove stingingly across his mouth. Then there was only the sound of gasping and struggling, of their feet scrabbling and slipping on the earth, crackling down the thick grass.
“Will you stop!” he cried, but she kept battling.
She jerked back and his taut fingers ripped away part of her dress. He let go and the material fluttered down to her waist. He saw her tanned shoulder and the white brassiere cup over her left breast.
She clawed out at him and he caught her wrists in an iron grip. Her right foot drove a bone-numbing kick to his skin.
“Damn it!”
With a snarl of rage he drove his right palm across her face. She staggered back, then looked at him dizzily. Abruptly she started crying helplessly. She sank to her knees before him, holding her arms over her head as if to ward off further blows.
Neville stood there gasping, looking down at her cringing form. He blinked, then took a deep breath.
“Get up,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She didn’t raise her head. He looked down confusedly at her. He didn’t know what to say.
“I said I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her again.
She looked up. But his face seemed to frighten her again, for she shrank back. She crouched there looking up at him fearfully.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
He didn’t realize that his voice was devoid of warmth, that it was the harsh, sterile voice of a man who had lost all touch with humanity.
He took a step toward her and she drew back again with a frightened gasp. He extended his hand.
“Here,” he said. “Stand up.”
She got up slowly but without his help. Noticing suddenly her exposed breast, she reached down and held up the torn material of her dress.
They stood there breathing harshly and looking at each other. And, now that the first shock had passed, Neville didn’t know what to say. He’d been dreaming of this moment for years. His dreams had never been like this.
“What… what’s your name?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed on his face, her lips kept trembling.
“Well?” he asked loudly, and she flinched.
“R-Ruth.” Her voice faltered.
A shudder ran through Robert Neville’s body. The sound of her voice seemed to loosen everything in him.
Questions disappeared. He felt his heart beating heavily. He almost felt as if he were going to cry.
His hand moved out, almost unconsciously. Her shoulder trembled under his palm.
“Ruth,” he said in a flat, lifeless voice.
His throat moved as he stared at her.
“Ruth,” he said again.
The two of them, the man and the woman, stood facing each other in the great, hot field.
Chapter Sixteen
THE WOMAN LAY MOTIONLESS on his bed, sleeping. It was past four in the afternoon. At least twenty times Neville had stolen into the bedroom to look at her and see if she were awake. Now he sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and worrying.
What if she is infected, though? he argued with himself. The worry had started a few hours before, while Ruth was sleeping. Now, he couldn’t rid himself of the fear. No matter how he reasoned, it didn’t help. All right, she was tanned from the sun, she had been walking in the daylight. The dog had been in the daylight too.
Neville’s fingers tapped restlessly on the table.
Simplicity had departed; the dream had faded into disturbing complexity. There had been no wondrous embrace, no magic words spoken. Beyond her name he had got nothing from her. Getting her to the house had been a battle. Getting her to enter had been even worse. She had cried and begged him not to kill her. No matter what he said to her, she kept crying and begging. He had visualized something on the order of a Hollywood production; stars in their eyes, entering the house, arms about each other, fade-out. Instead he had been forced to tug and cajole and argue and scold while she held back. The entrance had been less than romantic. He had to drag her in.
Once in the house, she had been no less frightened. He’d tried to act comfortingly, but all she did was cower in one corner the way the dog had done. She wouldn’t eat or drink anything he gave her. Finally he’d been compelled to take her in the bedroom and lock her in. Now she was asleep.
He sighed wearily and fingered the handle of his cup. All these years, he thought, dreaming about a companion. Now I meet one and the first thing I do is distrust her, treat her crudely and impatiently.
And yet there was really nothing else he could do. He had accepted too long the proposition that he was the only normal person left. It didn’t matter that she looked normal. He’d seen too many of them lying in their coma that looked as healthy as she. They weren’t, though, and he knew it. The simple fact that she had been walking in the sunlight wasn’t enough to tip the scales on the side of trusting acceptance. He had doubted too long. His concept of the society had become ironbound. It was almost impossible for him to believe that there were others like him. And, after the first shock had diminished, all the dogma of his long years alone had asserted itself.
With a heavy breath he rose and went back to the bedroom. She was still in the same position. Maybe, he thought, she’s gone back into coma again.
He stood over the bed, staring down at her. Ruth. There was so much about her he wanted to know. And yet he was almost afraid to find out. Because if she were like the others, there was only one course open. And it was bet
ter not to know anything about the people you killed.
His hands twitched at his sides, his blue eyes gazed flatly at her. What if it had been a freak occurrence? What if she had snapped out of coma for a little while and gone wandering? It seemed possible. And yet, as far as he knew, daylight was the one thing the germ could not endure. Why wasn’t that enough to convince him she was normal?
Well, there was only one way to make sure.
He bent over and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Wake up,” he said.
She didn’t stir. His mouth tightened and his fingers drew in on her soft shoulder.
Then he noticed the thin golden chain around her throat. Reaching in with rough fingers, he drew it out of the bosom of her dress.
He was looking at the tiny gold cross when she woke up and recoiled into the pillow. She’s not in coma; that was all he thought.
“What are you d-doing?” she asked faintly.
It was harder to distrust her when she spoke. The sound of the human voice was so strange to him that it had a power over him it had never had before.
“I’m-nothing,” he said.
Awkwardly he stepped back and leaned against the wall. He looked at her a moment longer. Then he asked, “Where are you from?”
She lay there looking blankly at him.
“I asked you where you were from,” he said. Aga in she said nothing. He pushed himself away from the wall with a tight look on his face.
“Ing-Inglewood,” she said hastily.
He looked at her coldly for a moment, then leaned back against the wall.
“I see,” he said. “Did-did you live alone?”
“I was married.”
“Where is your husband?”
Her throat moved. “He’s dead.”