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                                                 PART I: January 1976

                                            Chapter One



   ON THOSE CLOUDY DAYS, Robert Neville was never sure when sunset came, and
sometimes they were in the streets before he could get back.
   If he had been more analytical, he might have calculated the approximate time of their arrival;
but he still used the lifetime habit of judging nightfall by the sky, and on cloudy days that
method didn't work. That was why he chose to stay near the house on those days.
   He walked around the house in the dull gray of afternoon, a cigarette dangling from the corner
of his mouth, trailing threadlike smoke over his shoulder. He checked each window to see if any
of the boards had been loosened. After violent attacks, the planks were often split or partially
pried off, and he had to replace them completely; a job he hated. Today only one plank was
loose. Isn't that amazing? he thought.
   In the back yard he checked the hothouse and the water tank. Sometimes the structure around
the tank might be weakened or its rain catchers bent or broken off. Sometimes they would lob
rocks over the high fence around the hothouse, and occasionally they would tear through the
overhead net and he'd have to replace panes.
   Both the tank and the hothouse were undamaged today. He went to the house for a hammer
and nails. As he pushed open the front door, he looked at the distorted reflection of himself in
the cracked mirror he'd fastened to the door a month ago. In a few days, jagged pieces of the
silver-backed glass would start to fall off. Let `em fall, he thought. It was the last damned
mirror he'd put there; it wasn't worth it. He'd put garlic there instead. Garlic always worked.
   He passed slowly through the dim silence of the living room, turned left into the small
hallway, and left again into his bedroom.
   Once the room had been warmly decorated, but that was in another time. Now it was a room
entirely functional, and since Neville's bed and bureau took up so little space, he had converted
one side of the room into a shop.
   A long bench covered almost an entire wall, on its hardwood top a heavy band saw; a wood
lathe, an emery wheel, and a vise. Above it, on the wall, were haphazard racks of the tools that
Robert N�ville used.
   He took a hammer from the bench and picked out a few nails from one of the disordered bins.
Then he went back outside and nailed the plank fast to the shutter. The unused nails he threw
into the rubble next door.
   For a while he stood on the front lawn looking up and down the silent length of Cimarron
Street. He was a tall man, thirty-six, born of English-German stock, his features undistinguished
except for the long, determined mouth and the bright blue of his eyes, which moved now over
the charred ruins of the houses on each side of his. He'd burned them down to prevent them
from jumping on his roof from the adjacent ones.
   After a few minutes he took a long, slow breath and went back into the house. He tossed the
hammer on the living-room couch, then lit another cigarette and had his midmorning drink.

             Later he forced himself into the kitchen to grind up the five-day accumulation of garbage in
the sink. He knew he should burn up the paper plates and utensils too, and dust the furniture and
wash out the sinks and the bathtub and toilet, and change the sheets and pillowcase on his bed;
but he didn't feel like it.
   For he was a man and he was alone and these things had no importance to him.


    It was almost noon. Robert Neville was in his hothouse collecting a basketful of garlic.
    In the beginning it had made him sick to smell garlic in such quantity his stomach had been in
a state of constant turmoil. Now the smell was in his house and in his clothes, and sometimes he
thought it was even in his flesh.
    He hardly noticed it at all.
    When he had enough bulbs, he went back to the house and dumped them on the drainboard of
the sink. As he flicked the wall switch, the light flickered, then flared into normal brilliance. A
disgusted hiss passed his clenched teeth. The generator was at it again. He'd have to get out that
damned manual again and check the wiring. And, if it were too much trouble to repair, he'd
have to install a new generator.
    Angrily he jerked a high- legged stool to the sink, got a knife, and sat down with an exhausted
grunt.
    First, be separated the bulbs into the small, sickle-shaped cloves. Then he cut each pink,
leathery clove in half, exposing the fleshy center buds. The air thickened with the musky,
pungent odor. When it got too oppressive, he snapped on the air-conditioning unit and suction
drew away the worst of it.
    Now he reached over and took an icepick from its wall rack. He punched holes in each clove
half, then strung them all together with wire until he had about twenty-five necklaces.
    In the beginning he had hung these necklaces over the windows. But from a distance they'd
thrown rocks until he'd been forced to cover the broken panes with plywood scraps. Finally one
day he'd torn off the plywood and nailed up even rows of planks instead. It had made the house
a gloomy sepulcher, but it was better than having rocks come flying into his rooms in a shower
of splintered glass. And, once he had installed the three air-conditioning units, it wasn't too bad.
A man could get used to anything if he had to.
    When he was finished stringing the garlic cloves, he went outside and nailed them over the
window boarding, taking down the old strings, which had lost most of their potent smell.
    He had to go through this process twice a week. Until he found something better, it was his
first line of defense.
    Defense? he often thought. For what?
    All afternoon he made stakes.
    He lathed them out of thick doweling, band-sawed into nine- inch lengths. These be held
against the whirling emery stone until they were as sharp as daggers
    It was tiresome, monotonous work, and it filled the air with hot-smelling wood dust that
settled in his pores and got into his lungs and made him cough.
    Yet he never seemed to get ahead. No matter how many stakes he made, they were gone in
no time at all. Doweling was getting harder to find, too. Eventually he'd have to lathe down
rectangular lengths of wood. Won't that be fun? he thought irritably.
    It was all very depressing and it made him resolve to find a better method of disposal. But
how could he find it when they never gave him a chance to slow down and think?

             As he lathed, he listened to records over the loudspeaker he'd set up in the bedroom--
Beethoven's Third, Seventh, and Ninth symphonies. He was glad he'd learned early in life, from
his mother, to appreciate this kind of music. It helped to fill the terrible void of hours.
   From four o'clock on, his gaze kept shifting to the clock on the wall. He worked in silence,
lips pressed into a hard line, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his eyes staring at the bit as it
gnawed away the wood and sent floury dust filtering down to the floor.
   Four- fifteen. Four-thirty. It was a quarter to five.
   In another hour they'd be at the house again, the filthy bastards. As soon as the light was
gone.


   He stood before the giant freezer, selecting his supper.
   His jaded eyes moved over the stacks of meats down to the frozen vegetables, down to the
breads and pastries, the fruits and ice cream.
   He picked out two lamb chops, string beans, and a small box of orange sherbet. He picked the
boxes from the freezer and pushed shut the door with his elbow,
   Next he moved over to the uneven stacks of cans piled to the ceiling. He took down a can of
tomato juice, then left the room that had once belonged to Kathy and now belonged to his
stomach.
   He moved slowly across the living room, looking at the mural that covered the back wall. It
showed a cliff edge, sheering off to green-blue ocean that surged and broke over black rocks.
Far up in the clear blue sky, white sea gulls floated on the wind, and over on the right a gnarled
tree hung over the precipice, its dark branches etched against the sky.
   Neville walked into the kitchen and dumped the groceries on the table, his eyes moving to the
clock. Twenty minutes to six. Soon now.
   He poured a little water into a small pan and clanked it down on a stove burner. Next he
thawed out the chops and put them under the broiler. By this time the water was boiling and he
dropped in the frozen string beans and covered them, thinking that it was probably the electric
stove that was milking the generator.
   At the table he sliced himself two pieces of bread and poured himself a glass of tomato juice.
He sat down and looked at the red second hand as it swept slowly around the clock face. The
bastards ought to be here soon.
   After he'd finished his tomato juice, he walked to the front door and went out onto the porch.
He stepped off onto the lawn and walked down to the sidewalk.
   The sky was darkening and it was getting chilly. He looked up and down Cimarron Street, the
cool breeze ruffling his blond hair. That's what was wrong with these cloudy days; you never
knew when they were coming.
   Oh, well, at least they were better than those damned dust storms. With a shrug, he moved
back across the lawn and into the house, locking and bolting the door behind him, sliding the
thick bar into place. Then he went back into the kitchen, turned his chops, and switched off the
heat under the string beans.
   He was putting the food on his plate when he stopped and his eyes moved quickly to the
clock. Six-twenty- five today. Ben Cortman was shouting.
   "Come out, Neville!"
   Robert Neville sat down with a sigh and began to eat.

             He sat in the living room, trying to read. He'd made himself a whisky and soda at his small
bar and he held the cold glass as he read a physiology text. From the speaker over the hallway
door, the music of Schonberg was playing loudly.
   Not loudly enough, though. He still heard them outside, their murmuring and their walkings
about and their cries, their snarling and fighting among themselves. Once in a while a rock or
brick thudded off the house. Sometimes a dog barked.
   And they were all there for the same thing.
   Robert Neville closed his eyes a moment and held his lips in a tight line. Then he opened his
eyes and lit another cigarette, letting the smoke go deep into his lungs.
   He wished he'd had time to soundproof the house. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't that he
had to listen to them. Even after five months, it got on his nerves.
   He never looked at them any more. In the beginning he'd made a peephole in the front
window and watched them. But then the women had seen him and had started striking vile
postures in order to entice him out of the house. He didn't want to look at that.
   He put down his book and stared bleakly at the rug, hearing Verkl�rte Nacht play over the
loud-speaker. He knew he could put plugs in his ears to shut off the sound of them, but that
would shut off the music too, and he didn't want to feel that they were forcing him into a shell.
   He closed his eyes again. It was the women who made it so difficult, be thought, the women
posing like lewd puppets in the night on the possibility that he'd see them and decide to come
out.
   A shudder. ran through him. Every night it was the same. He'd be reading and listening to
music. Then he'd start to think about soundproofing the house, then he'd think about the
women.
   Deep in his body, the knotting heat began again, and be pressed his lips together until they
were white. He knew the feeling well and it enraged him that he couldn't combat it. It grew and
grew until he couldn't sit still any more. Then he'd get up and pace the floor, fists bloodless at
his sides. Maybe he'd set up the movie projector or eat something or have too much to drink or
turn the music up so loud it hurt his ears. He had to do something when it got really bad.
   He felt the muscles of his abdomen closing in like frightening coils. He picked up the book
and tried to read, his lips forming each word slowly and painfully.
   But in a moment the book was on his lap again. He looked at the bookcase across from him.
All the knowledge in those books couldn't put out the fires in him; all the words of centuries
couldn't end the wordless, mindless craving of his flesh.
   The realization made him sick. It was an insult to a man. All right, it was a natural drive, but
there was no outlet for it any more. They'd forced celibacy on him; he'd have to live with it.
You have a mind, don't you? he asked himself. Well, use it?
   He reached over and turned the music still louder; then forced himself to read a whole page
without pause. He read about blood cells being forced through membranes, about pale lymph
carrying the wastes through tubes blocked by lymph nodes, about lymphocytes and phago cytic
cells.
   "--to empty, in the left shoulder region, near the thorax, into a large vein of the blood
circulating system."
   The book shut with a thud.
   Why didn't they leave him alone? Did they think they could all have him? Were they so
stupid they thought that? Why did they keep coming every night? After five months, you'd

          think they'd give up and try elsewhere.
    He went over to the bar and made himself another drink. As he turned back to his chair he
heard stones rattling down across the roof and landing with thuds in the shrubbery beside the
house. Above the noises, he heard Ben Cortman shout as he always shouted.
    "Come out, Neville!"
    Someday I'll get that bastard, he thought as he took a big swallow of the bitter drink.
Someday I'll knock a stake right through his goddamn chest. I'll make one a foot long for him, a
special one with ribbons on it, the bastard.
    Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd soundproof the house. His fingers drew into white-knuckled
fists. He couldn't stand thinking about those women. If he didn't hear them, maybe he wouldn't
think about them. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
    The music ended and he took a stack of records off the turntable and slid them back into their
cardboard envelopes. Now he could hear them even more clearly outside. He reached for the
first new record he could get and put it on the turntable and twisted the volume up to its highest
point.
    "The Year of the Plague," by Roger Leie, filled his ears. Violins scraped and whined,
tympani thudded like the beats of a dying heart, flutes played weird, atonal melodies.
    With a stiffening of rage, he wrenched up the record and snapped it over his right knee. He'd
meant to break it long ago. He walked on rigid legs to the kitche n and flung the pieces into the
trash box. Then he stood in the dark kitchen, eyes tightly shut, teeth clenched, hands damped
over his ears. Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone!
    No use, you couldn't beat them at night. No use trying; it was their special time. He was
acting very stupidly, trying to beat them. Should he watch a movie? No, he didn't feel like
setting up the projector. He'd go to bed and put the plugs in his ears. It was what he ended up
doing every night, anyway.
    Quickly, trying not to think at all; he went to the bedroom and undressed. He put on pajama
bottoms and went into the bathroom. He never wore pajama tops; it was a habit he'd acquired in
Panama during the war.
    As he washed, he looked into the mirror at his broad chest, at the dark hair swirling around
the nipples and down the center line of his chest. He looked at the ornate cross he'd had tattooed
on his chest one night in Panama when he'd been drunk. What a fool I was in those days! he
thought. Well, maybe that cross had saved his life.
    He brushed his teeth carefully and used dental- floss. He tried to take good care of his teeth
because he was his own dentist now. Some things could go to pot, but not his health, he thought.
Then why don't you stop pouring alcohol into yourself? he thought. Why don't you shut the hell
up? he thought.
    Now be went through the house, turning out lights. For a few minutes he looked at the mural
and tried to believe it was really the ocean. But how could he believe it with all the bumpings
and the scrapings, the howlings and snarlings and cries in the night?
    He turned off the living- room lamp and went into the bedroom.
    He made a sound of disgust when he saw that sawdust covered the bed. He brushed it off
with snapping hand strokes, thinking that he'd better build a partition between the shop and the
sleeping portion of the room. Better do this and better do that, he thought morosely. There were
so many damned things to do, he'd never get to the real problem.
    He jammed in his earplugs and a great silence engulfed him. He turned off the light and
crawled in between the sheets. He looked at the radium- faced clock and saw that it was only a

          few minutes past ten. Just as well, he thought. This way I'll get an early start.
    He lay there on the bed and took deep breaths of the darkness, hoping for sleep. But the
silence didn't really help. He could still see them out there, the white- faced men prowling
around his house, looking ceaselessly for a way to get in at him. Some of them, probably,
crouching on their haunches like dogs, eyes glittering at the house, teeth slowly grating together,
back and forth, back and forth.
    And the women ...
    Did he have to start thinking about them again? He tossed over on his stomach with a curse
and pressed his face into the hot pillow. He lay there, breathing heavily, body writhing slightly
on the sheet. Let the morning come. His mind spoke the words it spoke every night, Dear God,
let the morning come.
    He dreamed about Virginia and he cried out in his sleep and his fingers gripped the sheets like
frenzied talons.

                                                    Chapter Two



   THE ALARM WENT OFF at five-thirty and Robert Neville reached out a numbed arm in the
morning gloom and pushed in the stop.
   He reached for his cigarettes and lit one, then sat up. After a few moments he got up and
walked into the dark living room and opened the peephole door.
   Outside, on the lawn, the dark figures stood like silent soldiers on duty. As he watched, some
of them started moving away, and he heard them muttering discontentedly among themselves.
Another night was ended.
   He went back to the bedroom, switched on the light, and dressed. As he was pulling on his
shirt, he heard Ben Cortman cry out, "Come out, Neville!"
   And that was all. After that, they all went away weaker, he knew, than when they had come.
Unless they had attacked one of their own. They did that often. There was no union among
them. Their need was their only motivation.
   After dressing, Neville sat down on his bed with a grunt and penciled his list for the day:

  Lathe at Sears
  Water
  Check generator
  Doweling (?)
  Usual

   Breakfast was hasty: a glass of orange juice, a slice of toast, and two cups of coffee. He
finished it quickly, wishing he had the patience to eat slowly.
   After breakfast he threw the paper plate and cup into the trash box and brushed his teeth. At
least I have one good habit, he consoled himself.
   The first thing he did when he went outside was look at the sky. It was clear, virtually
cloudless. He could go, out today. Good.
   As he crossed the porch, his shoe kicked some pieces of the mirror. Well, the damn thing
broke just as I thought it would, he thought. He'd clean it up later.
   One of the bodies was sprawled on the sidewalk; the other one was half concealed in the
shrubbery. They were both women. They were almost always women.
   He unlocked the garage door and backed his Willys station wagon into the early- morning
crispness. Then he got out and pulled down the back gate. He put on heavy gloves and walked
over to the woman on the sidewalk.
   There was certainly nothing attractive about them in the daylight, he thought, as he dragged
them across the lawn and threw them up on the canvas tarpaulin. There wasn't a drop left in
them; both women were the color of fish out of water. He raised the gate and fastened it.
   He went around the lawn then, picking up stones and bricks and putting them into a cloth
sack. He put the sack in the station wagon and then took off his gloves. He went inside the
house, washed his hands, and made lunch: two sandwiches, a few cookies, and a thermos of hot

          coffee.
    When that was done, he went into the bedroom and got his bag of stakes. He slung this across
his back and buckled on the holster that held his mallet. Then he went out of the house, locking
the front door behind him.
    He wouldn't bother searching for Ben Cortman that morning; there were too many other
things to do. For a second, he thought about the soundproofing job he'd resolved to do on the
house. Well, the hell with it, he thought. I'll do it tomorrow or some cloudy day.
    He got into the station wagon and checked his list. "Lathe at Sears"; that was first. After he
dumped the bodies, of course.
    He started the car and backed quickly into the street and headed for Compton Boulevard.
There he turned right and headed east. On both sides of him the houses stood silent, and against
the curbs cars were parked, empty and dead.
    Robert Neville's eyes shifted down for a moment to the fuel gauge. There was still a half
tank, but he might as well stop on Western Avenue and fill it. There was no point in using any
of the gasoline stored in the garage until be had to.
    He pulled into the silent station and braked. He got a barrel of gasoline and siphoned it into
his tank until the pale amber fluid came gushing out of the tank opening and ran down onto the
cement.
    He checked the oil, water, battery water, and tires. Everything was in good condition. It
usually was, because he took special care of the car. If it ever broke down so that he couldn't get
back to the house by sunset...
    Well, there was no point in even worrying about that. If it ever happened, that was the end.
    Now he continued up Compton Boulevard past the tall oil derricks, through Compton,
through all the silent streets. There was no one to be seen anywhere.
    But Robert Neville knew where they were.
    The fire was always burning. As the car drew closer, he pulled on his gloves and gas mask
and watched through the eyepieces the sooty pall of smoke hovering above the earth. The entire
field had been excavated into one gigantic pit, that was in June 1975.
    Neville parked the car and jumped out, anxious to get the job over with quickly. Throwing
the catch and jerking. down the rear gate, he pulled out one of the bodies and dragged it to the
edge of the pit. There he stood it on its feet and shoved.
    The body bumped and rolled down the steep incline until it settled on the great pile of
smoldering ashes at the bottom.
    Robert Neville drew in harsh breaths as he hurried back to the station wagon. He always felt
as though he were strangling when he was here, even though he had the gas mask on.
    Now he dragged the second body to the brink of the pit and pushed it over. Then, after
tossing the sack, of rocks down, he hurried back to the car and sped away.
    After he'd driven a half mile, he skinned off the mask and gloves and tossed them into the
back. His mouth opened and he drew in deep lungfuls of fresh air. He took the flask from the
glove compartment and took a long drink of burning whisky. Then he lit a cigarette and inhaled
deeply. Sometimes he had to go to the burning pit every day for weeks at a time, and it always
made him sick.
    Somewhere down there was Kathy.
    On the way to Inglewood he stopped at a market to get some bottled water. As he entered the
silent store, the smell of rotted food filled his nostrils. Quickly he pushed a metal wagon up and
down the silent, dust-thick aisles, the heavy smell of decay setting his teeth on edge, making him

          breathe through his mouth.
   He found the water bottles in back, and also found a door opening on a flight of stairs. After
putting all the bottles into the wagon, he went up the stairs. The owner of the market might be
up there; he might as well get started.
   There were two of them. In the living room, lying on a couch, was a woman about thirty
years old, wearing a red housecoat. Her chest rose and fell slowly as she lay there, eyes closed,
her hands clasped over her stomach.
   Robert Neville's hands fumbled on the stake and mallet. It was always hard, when they were
alive; especially with women. He could feel that senseless demand returning again, tightening
his muscles. He forced it down. It was insane, there was no rational argument for it.
   She made no sound except for a sudden, hoarse intake of breath. As he walked into the
bedroom, he could hear a sound like the sound of water running. Well, what else can I do? he
asked himself, for he still had to convince himself he was doing the right thing.
   He stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at the small bed by the window, his throat moving,
breath shuddering in his chest. Then, driven on, he walked to the side of the bed and looked
down at her.
   Why do they all look like Kathy to me? he thought, drawing out the second stake with
shaking hands.


    Driving slowly to Sears, he tried to forget by wondering why it was that only wooden stakes
should work.
    He frowned as he drove along the empty boulevard, the only sound the muted growling of the
motor in his car. It seemed fantastic that it had taken him five months to start wondering about
it.
    Which brought another question to mind. How was it that he always managed to hit the
heart? It had to be the heart; Dr. Busch had said so. Yet he, Neville, had no anatomical
knowledge.
    His brow furrowed. It irritated him that he should have gone through this hideous process so
long without stopping once to question it.
    He shook, his head. No, I should think it over carefully, he thought, I should collect all the
questions before I try to answer them. Things should be done the right way, the scientific way.
    Yeah, yeah, yeah, he thought, shades of old Fritz. That had been his father's name. Neville
had loathed his father and fought the acquisition of his father's logic and mechanical facility
every inch of the way. His father had died denying the vampire violently to the last.
    At Sears he got the lathe, loaded it into the station wagon, then searched the store.
    There were five of them in the basement, hiding in various shadowed places. One of them
Neville found inside a display freezer. When he saw the man lying there in this enamel coffin,
he had to laugh; it seemed such a funny place to hide.
    Later, he thought of what a humorless world it was when he could find amusement in such a
thing.
    About two o'clock he parked and ate his lunch. Everything seemed to taste of garlic.
    And that set him wondering about the effect garlic had on them. It must have been the smell
that chased them off, but why?
    They were strange, the facts about them: their staying inside by day, their avoidance of garlic,
their death by stake, their reputed fear of crosses, their supposed dread of mirrors.

             Take that last, now. According to legend, they were invisible in mirrors, but he knew that was
untrue. As untrue as the belief that they transformed themselves into bats. That was a
superstition that logic, plus observation had easily disposed of. It was equally foolish to believe
that they could transform themselves into wolves. Without a doubt there were vampire dogs; he
had seen and heard them outside his house at night. But they were only dogs.
   Robert Neville compressed his lips suddenly. Forget it, he told himself; you're not ready, yet.
The time would come when he'd take a crack at it, detail for detail, but the time wasn't now.
There were enough things to worry about now.
   After lunch, he went from house to house and used up all his stakes. He had forty-seven
stakes.

                                                    Chapter Three



   "THE STRENGTH OF THE vampire is that no one will believe in him."
   Thank you, Dr. Van Helsing, he thought, putting down his copy Of "Dracula." He sat staring
moodily at the bookcase, listening to Brahms' second piano concerto, a whisky sour in his right
hand, a cigarette between his lips.
   It was true. The book was a hodgepodge of superstitions and soap-opera clich�s, but that line
was true; no one had believed in them, and how could they fight something they didn't even
believe in?
   That was what the situation had been. Something black and of the night had come crawling
out of the Middle Ages. Something with no framework or credulity, something that had been
consigned, fact and figure, to the pages of imaginative literature. Vampires were pass�;
Summers' idylls or Stoker's melodramatics or a brief inclusion in the Britannica or grist for the
pulp writer's mill or raw material for the B-film factories. A tenuous legend passed from century
to century.
   Well, it was true.
   He took a sip from his drink and closed his eyes as the cold liquid trickled down his throat and
warmed his stomach. True, he thought, but no one ever got the chance to know it. Oh, they
knew it was something, but it couldn't be that--not that. That was imagination, that was
superstition, there was no such thing as that.
   And, before science had caught up with the lege nd, the legend had swallowed science and
everything.
   He hadn't found any doweling that day. He hadn't checked the generator. He hadn't cleaned
up the pieces of mirror. He hadn't eaten supper; he'd lost his appetite. That wasn't hard. He
lost it most of the time. He couldn't do the things he'd done all afternoon and then come home
to a hearty meal. Not even after five months.
   He thought of the eleven--no, the twelve children that afternoon, and he finished his drink in
two swallows.
   He blinked and the room wavered a little before him. You're getting blotto, Father, he told
himself. So what? he returned. Has anyone more right?
   He tossed the book across the room. Begone, Van Helsing and Mina and Jonathan and blood-
eyed Count and all! All figments, all driveling extrapolations on a somber theme.
   A coughing chuckle emptied itself from his throat. Outside, Ben Cortman called for him to
come out. Be right out, Benny, he thought. Soon as I get my tuxedo on.
   He shuddered. and gritted his teeth edges toge ther. Be right out. Well; why not? Why not go
out? It was a sure way to be free of them.
   Be one of them.
   He chuckled at the simplicity of it, then shoved himself up and walked crookedly to the bar.
Why not? His mind plodded on. Why go through all this complexity when a flung open door
and a few steps would end it all?
   For the life of him, he didn't know. There was, of course, the faint possibility that others like

          him existed somewhere, trying to go on, hoping that someday they would be among their own
kind again. But how could he ever find them if they weren't within a day's drive of his house?
    He shrugged and poured more whisky in the glass; he'd given up the use of jiggers months
ago. Garlic on the windows, and nets over the hothouse and burn the bodies and cart the rocks
away and, fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch, reduce their unholy numbers. Why kid
himself? He'd never find anyone else.
    His body dropped down heavily on the chair. Here we are, kiddies, sitting like a bug in a rug,
snugly, surrounded by a battalion of blood-suckers who wish no more than to sip freely of my
bonded, 100-proof hemoglobin. Have a drink, men, this one's really on me.
    His face twisted into an expression of raw, unqualified hatred. Bastards! I'll kill eve ry,
mother's son of you before I'll give in! His right hand closed like a clamp and the glass
shattered in his grip.
    He looked down, dull-eyed, at the fragments on the floor, at the jagged piece of glass still in
his hand, at the whisky-diluted blood dripping off his palm.
    Wouldn't they like to get some of it, though? he thought. He started up with a furious lurch
and almost opened the door so he could wave the hand in their faces and hear them howl.
    Then he closed his eyes and a shudder ran through his body. Wise up, buddy, he thought. Go
bandage your goddamn hand.
    He stumbled into the bathroom and washed his hand carefully, gasping as he daubed iodine
into the sliced-open flesh. Then he bandaged it clumsily, his broad chest rising and falling with
jerky movements, sweat dripping from his forehead. I need a cigarette, he thought.
    In the living room again, he changed Brahms for Bernstein and lit a cigarette. What will I do
if I ever run out of coffin nails? he wondered, looking at the cigarette's blue trailing smoke.
Well, there wasn't much chance of that. He had about a thousand cartons in the closet of
Kathy's--He clenched his teeth together. In the closet of the larder, the larder, the larder.
    Kathy's room.
    He sat staring with dead eyes at the mural while "The Age of Anxiety" pulsed in his ears.
Age of anxiety, he mused. You thought you had anxiety, Lenny boy. Lenny and Benny; you
two should meet. Composer, meet corpse. Mamma, when I grow up I wanna be a wampir like
Dada.
    Why, bless you, boo, of course you shall.
    The whisky gurgled into the glass. He grimaced a little at the pain in his hand and shifted the
bottle to his left hand.
    He sat down and sipped. Let the jagged edge of sobriety be now dulled, he thought. Let the
crumby balance of clear vision be expunged, but post haste. I hate `em.
    Gradually the room shifted on its gyroscopic center and wove and undulated about his chair.
A pleasant haze, fuzzy at the edges, took over sight. He looked at the glass, at the record player.
He let his head flop from side to side. Outside, they prowled and muttered and waited.
    Pore vampires, he thought, pore little cusses, pussyfootin' round my house, so thirsty, so all
forlorn.
    A thought. He raised a forefinger that wavered before his eyes.
    Friends, I come before you to discuss the vampire; a minority element if there ever was one,
and there was one.
    But to concision: I will sketch out the basis for my thesis, which thesis is this: Vampires are
prejudiced against...
    The keynote of minority prejudice is this: They are loathed because they are feared. Thus...

             He made himself a drink. A long one.
   At one time, the Dark and Middle Ages, to be succinct, the vampire's power was great, the
fear of him tremendous. He was anathema and still remains anathema. Society hates him
without ration.
   But are his needs any more shocking than the needs of other animals and men? Are his deeds
more outrageous than the deeds of the parent who drained the spirit from his child? The vampire
may foster quickened heartbeats and levitated hair. But is he worse than the parent who gave to
society a neurotic child who became a politician? Is he worse than the manufacturer who set up
belated foundations with the money he made by handing bombs and guns to suicidal
nationalists? Is he worse than the distiller who gave bastardized grain juice to stultify further the
brains of those who, sober, were incapable of a progressive thought? (Nay, I apologize for this
calumny; I nip the brew that feeds me.) Is he worse, then, than the publisher who filled
ubiquitous racks with lust and death wishes? Really, now, search your soul; lovie--is the
vampire so bad?
   All he does is drink blood.
   Why, then, this unkind prejudice, this thoughtless bias? Why cannot the vampire live where
be chooses? Why must he seek out hiding places where none can find him out? Why do you
wish him destroyed? Ah, see, you have turned the poor guileless innocent into a haunted animal.
He has no means of support, no measures for proper education, he has not the, voting franchise.
No wonder he is compelled to seek out a predatory nocturnal existence;
   Robert Neville grunted a surly grunt. Sure, sure, he thought, but would you let your sister
marry one?
   He shrugged. You got me there, buddy, you got me there.
   The music ended. The needle scratched back and forth in the black grooves. He sat there,
feeling a chill creeping up his legs. That's what was wrong with drinking too much. You
became immune to drunken delights. There was no solace in liquor. Before you got happy, you
collapsed. Already the room was straightening out, the sounds outside were starting to nibble at
his eardrums..
   "Come out, Neville!"
   His throat moved and a shaking breath passed his lips. Come out. The women were out
there, their dresses open or taken off, their flesh waiting for his touch, their lips waiting for--My
blood, my blood!
   As if it were someone else's hand, he watched his whitened fist rise up slowly, shuddering, to
drive down on his leg. The pain made him suck in a breath of the house's stale air. Garlic.
Everywhere the smell of garlic. In his clothes and in the furniture and in his food and even in his
drink. Have a garlic and soda; his mind rattled out the attempted joke.
   He lurched up and started pacing. What am I going to do now? Go through the routine
again? I'll save you the trouble. Reading-drinking-soundproof-the-house--the women. The
women, the lustful, bloodthirsty, naked women flaunting their hot bodies at him. No, not hot.
   A shuddering whine wrenched up through his chest and throat. Goddamn them, what were
they waiting for? Did they think he was going to come out and hand himself over?
   Maybe I am, maybe I am. He actually found himself jerking off the crossbar from the door.
Coming, girls, I'm coming. Wet your lips, now.
   Outside, they heard the bar being lifted, and a howl of anticipation sounded in the night.
   Spinning, he drove his fists one after the other into the wall until he'd cracked the plaster and
broken his skin. Then he stood there trembling helplessly, his teeth chattering.

             After a while it passed. He put the bar back across the door and went into the bedroom. He
sank down, on the bed and fell back on the pillow with a groan. His left hand beat once, feebly,
on the bedspread.
   Oh, God, he thought, how long, how long?

                                                    Chapter Four



   THE ALARM NEVER WENT off because he'd forgotten to set it. He slept soundly and
motionlessly, his body like cast iron. When he finally opened his eyes, it was ten o'clock.
   With a disgusted muttering, he struggled up and dropped his legs over the side of the bed.
Instantly his head began throbbing as if his brains were trying to force their way through his
skull. Fine, he thought, a hangover. That's all I need.
   He pushed himself up with a groan and stumbled into the bathroom, threw water in his face
and splashed some over his head. No good, his mind complained, no good. I still feel like hell.
In the mirror his face was gaunt, bearded, and very much like the face of a man in his forties.
Love, your magic spell is everywhere; inanely, the words flapped across his brain like wet sheets
in a wind.
   He walked slowly into the living room and opened the front door. A curse fell thickly from
his lips at the sight of the woman crumpled across the sidewalk. He started to tighten angrily,
but it made his head throb too much and he had to let it go. I'm sick, he thought.
   The sky was gray and dead. Great! he thought. Another day stuck in this boarded- up rat
hole! He slammed the door viciously, then winced, groaning, at the brain-stabbing noise.
Outside, he heard the rest of the mirror fall out and shatter on the porch cement. Oh, great! His
lips contorted back into a white twist of flesh.
   Two cups of burning black coffee only made his stomach feel worse. He put down the cup
and went into the living room. To hell with it, he thought, I'll get drunk again.
   But the liquor tasted like turpentine, and with a rasping snarl he flung the glass against the
wall and stood watching the liquor run down onto the rug. Hell, I'm runnin' out of glasses. The
thought irritated him while breath struggled in through his nostrils and out again in faltering
bursts.
   He sank down on the couch and sat there, shaking his head slowly. It was no use; they'd
beaten him, the black bastards had beaten him.
   That restless feeling again; the feeling as if he were expanding and the house were contracting
and any second now he'd go bursting through its frame in an explosion of wood, plaster, and
brick. He got up and moved quickly to the door, his hands shaking.
   On the lawn, he stood sucking in a great lungful of the wet morning air, his face turned away
from the house he hated. But he hated the other houses around there too, and he hated the
pavement and the sidewalks and the lawns and everything that was on Cimarron Street.
   It kept building up. And suddenly he knew he had to get out of there. Cloudy day or not, he
had to get out of there.
   He locked the front door, unlocked the garage, and dragged up the thick door on its overhead
hinges. He didn't bother putting down the door. I'll be back soon, he thought. I'll just go away
for a while.
   He backed the station wagon quickly down the driveway, jerked it around, and pressed down
hard on the accelerator, heading for Compton Boulevard. He didn't know where he was going.
   He went around the corner doing forty and jumped that to sixty- five before he'd gone another

          block. The car leaped forward under his foot and he kept the accelerator on the floor, forced
down by a rigid leg. His hands were like carved ice on the wheel and his face was the face of a
statue. At eighty- nine miles an hour, he shot down the lifeless, empty boulevard, one roaring
sound in the great stillness.


   Things rank and gross in nature possess it merely, he thought as he walked slowly across the
cemetery lawn.
   The grass was so high that the weight of it had bent it over and it crunched under his heavy
shoes as he walked. There was no sound but that of his shoes and the now senseless singing of
birds. Once I thought they sang because everything was right with the world, Robert Neville
thought, I know now I was wrong. They sing because they're feeble- minded.
   He had raced six miles, the gas pedal pressed to the floor, before he'd realized where he was
going. It was strange the way his mind and body had kept it secret from his consciousness.
Consciously, he'd known only that he was sick and depressed and had to get away from the
house. He didn't know he was going to visit Virginia.
   But he'd driven there directly and as fast as he could. He'd parked at the curb and entered
through the rusted gate, and now his shoes were pressing and crackling through the thick grass.
   How long had it been since he'd come here? It must have been at least a month. He wished
he'd brought flowers, but then, he hadn't realized he was coming here until he was almost at the
gate.
   His lips pressed together as an old sorrow held him again. Why couldn't he have Kathy there
too? Why had he followed so blindly, listening to those fools who set up their stupid regulations
during the plague? If only she could be there, lying across from her mother.
   Don't start that again, he ordered himself.
   Drawing closer to the crypt, he stiffened as he noticed that the iron door was slightly ajar. Oh,
no, he thought. He broke into a run across the wet grass. If they've been at her, I'll burn down
the city, he vowed. I swear to God, I'll burn it to the ground if they've touched her.
   He flung open the door and it clanged against the marble wall with a hollow, echoing sound.
His eyes moved quickly to the marble base on which the sealed casket rested.
   The tension sank; he drew in breath again. It was still there, untouched.
   Then, as he started in, he saw the man lying in one corner of the crypt, body curled upon the
cold floor.
   With a grunt of rage, Robert Neville rushed at the body, and, grabbing the man's coat in taut
fingers, he dragged him across the floor and flung him violently out onto the grass. The body
rolled onto its back, the white face pointing at the sky.
   Robert Neville went back into the crypt, chest rising and falling with harsh movements. Then
he closed his eyes and stood with his palms resting on the cover of the casket.
   I'm here, he thought. I'm back. Remember me.
   He threw out the flowers he'd brought the time before and cleared away the few leaves that
had blown in because the door had been opened.
   Then he sat down beside the casket and rested his forehead against its cold metal side.
   Silence held him in its cold and gentle hands.
   If I could die now, be thought; peacefully, gently, without a tremor or a crying out, if I could
be with her. If I could believe I would be with her.
   His fingers tightened slowly and his head sank forward on his chest.

             Virginia. Take me where you are.
   A tear, crystal, fell across his motionless hand...


    He had no idea how long he'd been there. After a while, though, even the deepest sorrow
faltered, even the most penetrating despair lost its scalpel edge. The flagellant's curse, he
thought, to grow inured even to the whip.
    He straightened up and stood. Still alive, he thought, heart beating senselessly, veins running
without point, bones and muscles and tissue all alive and functioning with no purpose at all.
    A moment longer he stood looking down at the casket, then he turned away with a sigh and
left, closing the door behind him quietly so as not to disturb her sleep.
    He'd forgotten about the man. He almost tripped over him now, stepping aside with a
muttered curse and starting past the body.
    Then, abruptly, he turned back.
    What's this? He looked down incredulously at the man. The man was dead; really dead. But
how could that be? The change had occurred so quickly, yet already the man looked and smelled
as though he'd been dead for days.
    His mind began churning with a sudden excitement. Something had killed the vampire;
something brutally effective. The heart had not been touched, no garlic had been present, and
yet...
    It came, seemingly, without effort. Of course--the daylight!
    A bolt of self-accusation struck him. To know for five months that they remained indoors by
day and never once to make the connection! He closed his eyes, appalled by his own stupidity.
    The rays of the sun; the infrared and ultraviolet. It had to be them. But why? Damn it, why
didn't he know anything about the effects of sunlight on the human system?
    Another thought: That man had been one of the true vampires; the living dead. Would
sunlight have the same effect on those who were still alive?
    The first excitement he'd felt in months made him break into a run for the station wagon.
    As the door slammed shut beside him, he wondered if he should have taken away the dead
man. Would the body attract others, would they invade the crypt? No, they wouldn't go near the
casket, anyway. It was sealed with garlic. Besides, the man's blood was dead now, it--Again
his thoughts broke off as he leaped to another conclusion. The sun's rays must have done
something to their blood!
    Was it possible, then, that all things bore relations to the blood? The garlic, the cross, the
mirror, the stake, daylight, the earth some of them slept in? He didn't see how, and yet...
    He had to do a lot of reading, a lot of research. It might be just the thing he needed. He'd
been planning for a long time to do it, but lately it seemed as if he'd forgotten it altogether. Now
this new idea started the desire again.
    He started, the car and raced up the street, turning off into a residential section and pulling up
before the first house he came to.
    He ran up the pathway to the front door, but it was locked and he couldn't force it in. With an
impatient growl, he ran to the next house. The door was open and he ran to the stairs through the
darkened living room and jumped up the carpeted steps two at a time.
    He found the woman in the bedroom. Without hesitation, he jerked back the covers and
grabbed her by the wrists. She grunted as her body hit the floor, and he heard her making tiny
sounds in her throat as he dragged her into the hall and started down the stairs.

              As he pulled her across the living room, she started to move.
    Her hands closed over his wrists and her body began to twist and flop on the rug. Her eyes
were still closed, but she gasped and muttered and her body kept trying to writhe out of his grip.
Her dark nails dug into his flesh. He tore out of her grasp with a snarl and dragged her the rest of
the way by her hair. Usually he felt a twinge when he realized that, but for some affliction he
didn't understand, these people were the same as he. But now an experimental fervor had seized
him and he could think of nothing else.
    Even so, he shuddered at the strangled sound of horror she made when he threw her on the
sidewalk outside.
    She lay twisting helplessly on the sidewalk, hands opening and closing, lips drawn back from
red-spotted lips.
    Robert Neville watched her tensely.
    His throat moved. It wouldn't last, the feeling of callous brutality. He bit his lips as he
watched her. All right, she's suffering, he argued with himself, but she's one of them and she'd
kill me gladly if she got the chance. You've got to look at it that way, it's the only way. Teeth
clenched, he stood there and watched her die.
    In a few minutes she stopped moving, stopped muttering, and her hands uncurled slowly like
white blossoms on the cement. Robert Neville crouched down and felt for her heartbeat. There
was none. Already her flesh was growing cold.
    He straightened up with a thin smile. It was true, then. He didn't need the stakes. After all
this time, he'd finally found a better method.
    Then his breath caught. But how did he know the woman was really dead? How could he
know until sunset?
    The thought filled him with a new, more restless anger.
    Why did each question blight the answers before it?
    He thought about it as he sat drinking a can of tomato juice taken from the supermarket
behind which he was parked.
    How was he going to know? He couldn't very well stay with the woman until sunset came.
    Take her home with you, fool.
    Again his eyes closed and he felt a shudder of irritation go through him. He was missing all
the obvious answers today. Now he'd have to go all the way back and find her, and he wasn't
even sure where the house was.
    He started the motor and pulled away from the parking lot, glancing down at his watch. Three
o'clock. Plenty of time to get back before they came. He eased the gas pedal down and the
station wagon pulled ahead faster.
    It took him about a half hour to relocate the house. The woman was still in the same position
on the sidewalk. Putting on his gloves, Neville lowered the back gate of the station wagon and
walked over to the woman. As be walked, he noticed her figure. No, don't start that again, for
God's sake.
    He dragged the woman back to the station wagon and tossed her in. Then he closed the gate
and took off his gloves. He held up the watch and looked at it. Three o'clock. Plenty of time
to--He jerked up the watch and held it against his ear, his heart suddenly jumping.
    The watch had stopped.

                                                     Chapter Five



    HIS FINGERS SHOOK AS he turned the ignition key. His hands gripped the wheel rigidly
as he made a tight U turn and started back toward Gardena.
    What a fool he'd been! It must have taken at least an hour to reach the cemetery. He must
have been in the crypt for hours. Then going to get that woman. Going to the market, drinking
the tomato juice, going back to get the woman again.
    What time was it?
    Fool! Cold fear poured through his veins at the thought of them all waiting for him at his
house. Oh, my God, and he'd left the garage door open! The gasoline, the equipment--the
generator!
    A groan cut itself off in his throat as he jammed the gas pedal to the floor and the small
station wagon leaped ahead, the speedometer needle fluttering, then moving steadily past the
sixty- five mark, the seventy, the seventy- five. What if they were already waiting for him? How
could he possibly get in the house?
    He forced himself to be calm. He mustn't go to pieces now; he had to keep himself in check.
He'd get in. Don't worry, you'll get inside, he told himself. But he didn't see how.
    One hand ran nervously through his hair. This is fine, fine, commented his mind. You go to
all that trouble to preserve your existence, and then one day you just don't come back in time.
Shut up! his mind snapped back at itself. But he could have killed himself for forgetting to wind
his watch the night before. Don't bother killing yourself, his mind reflected, they'll be glad to do
it for you. Suddenly he realized he was almost weak from hunger.
    The small amount of canned meat he'd eaten with the tomato juice had done nothing to
alleviate hunger.
    The silent streets flew past and he kept looking from side to side to see if any of them were
appearing in the doorways. It seemed as if it were already getting dark, but that could have been
imagination. It couldn't be that late, it couldn't be.
    He'd just gone hurtling past the corner of Western and Compton when he saw the man come
running out of a building and shout at him. His heart was contracted in an icy hand as the man's
cry fluttered in the air behind the car.
    He couldn't get any more speed out of the station wagon. And now his mind began torturing
him with visions of one of the tires going, the station wagon veering, leaping the curb and
crashing into a house. His lips started to shake and he jammed them together to stop them. His
hands on the wheel felt numb.
    He had to slow down at the corner of Cimarron. Out of the corner of an eye he saw a man
come rushing out of a house and start chasing the car.
    Then, as he turned the corner with a screech of clinging tires, he couldn't hold back the gasp.
    They were all in front of his house, waiting.
    A sound of helpless terror filled his throat. He didn't want to die. He might have thought
about it, even contemplated it. But he didn't want to die. Not like this.
    Now he saw them all turn their white faces at the sound of the motor. Some more of them

          came running out of the open garage and his teeth ground together in impotent fury. What a
stupid, brainless way to die!
    Now be saw them start running straight toward the station wagon, a line of them across the
street. And; suddenly, he knew he couldn't stop. He pressed down on the accelerator, and in a
moment the car went plowing through them, knocking three of them aside like tenpins. He felt
the car frame jolt as it struck the bodies. Their screaming white faces went flashing by his
window, their cries chilling his blood.
    Now they were behind and he saw in the rear- view mirror that they were all pursuing him. A
sudden plan caught hold in his mind, and impulsively he slowed down, even braking, until the
speed of the car fell to thirty, then twenty miles an hour.
    He looked back and saw them gaining, saw their grayish-white faces approaching, their dark
eyes fastened to his car, to him.
    Suddenly he twitched with shock as a snarl sounded nearby and, jerking his head around, he
saw the crazed face of Ben Cortman beside the car.
    Instinctively his foot jammed down on the gas pedal, but his other foot slipped off the clutch,
and with a neck-snapping jolt the station wagon jumped forward and stalled.
    Sweat broke out on his forehead as he lunged forward feverishly to press the button. Ben
Cortman clawed in at him.
    With a snarl he shoved the cold white hand aside.
    "Neville, Neville!"
    Ben Cortman reached in again, his hands like claws cut from ice. Again Neville pushed aside
the hand and jabbed at the starter button, his body shaking helplessly. Behind, he could hear
them all screaming excitedly as they came closer to the car.
    The motor coughed into life again as he felt Ben Cortman's long nails rake across his cheek.
    "Neville!"
    The pain made his hand jerk into a rigid fist, which he drove into Cortman's face. Cortman
went flailing back onto the pavement as the gears caught and the station wagon jolted forward,
picking up speed. One of the others caught up and leaped at the rear of the car. For a minute he
held on, and Robert Neville could see his ashen face glaring insanely through the back window.
Then he jerked the car over toward the curb, swerved sharply, and shook the man off. The man
went running across a lawn, arms ahead of him, and smashed violently into the side of a house.
    Robert Neville's heart was pounding so heavily now it seemed as if it would drive through his
chest walls. Breath shuddered in him and his flesh felt number and cold. He could feel the
trickle of blood on his cheek, but no pain. Hastily he wiped it off with one shaking hand.
    Now he spun the station wagon around the corner, turning right. He kept looking at the rear-
view mirror, then looking ahead. He went the short block to Haas Street and turned right again.
What if they cut through the yards and blocked his way?
    He slowed down a little until they came swarming around the corner like a pack of wolves.
Then he pressed down on the accelerator. He'd have to take the chance that they were all
following him. Would some of them guess what he was trying?
    He shoved down the gas pedal all the way and the station wagon jumped forward, racing up
the block. He wheeled it around the corner at fifty miles an hour, gunned up the short block to
Cimarron, and turned right again.
    His breath caught. There was no one in sight on his lawn. There was still a chance, then.
He'd have to let the station wagon go, though; there was no time to put it in the garage.
    He jerked the car to the curb and shoved the door open. As he raced around the edge of the

          car he heard the billowing cry of their approach around the corner.
    He'd have to take a chance on locking the garage. If he didn't, they might destroy the
generator; they couldn't have had time to do it already. His footsteps pounded up the driveway
to the garage.
    "Neville!"
    His body jerked back as Cortman came lunging out of the dark shadows of the garage.
    Cortman's body drove into his and almost knocked him down. He fell the cold, powerful
hands clamp on his throat and smelled the fetid breath clouding over his face. The two of them
went reeling back toward the sidewalk and the white- fanged mouth went darting down at Robert
Neville's throat
    Abruptly he jerked up his right fist and felt it drive into Cortman's throat. He heard the
choking sound in Cortman's throat. Up the block the first of them came rushing and screaming
around the corner.
    With a violent movement, Robert Neville grabbed Cortman by his long, greasy hair and sent
him hurtling down the driveway until he rammed head on into the side of the station wagon.
    Robert Neville's eyes flashed up the street. No time for the garage! He dashed around the
corner of the house and up to the porch.
    He skidded to a halt. Oh, God, the keys!
    With a terrified intake of breath he spun and rushed back toward the car. Cortman started up
with a throaty snarl and he drove his knee into the white face and knocked Cortman back on the
sidewalk. Then he lunged into the car and jerked the key chain away from the ignition slot.
    As he scuttled back out of the car the first one of them came leaping at him.
    He shrank back onto the car seat and the man tripped over his legs and went sprawling heavily
onto the side walk. Robert Neville pushed himself out, dashed across the lawn, and leaped onto
the porch.
    He had to stop to find the right key and another man came leaping up the porch steps. Neville
was slammed against the house by the impact of his body. The hot blood thick breath was on
him again, the bared mouth lunging at his throat. He drove his knee into the man's groin and
then, leaning his weight against the house, he raised his foot high and shoved the doubled over
man into the other one who was rushing across the lawn.
    Neville dived for the door and unlocked it. He pushed it open, slipped inside, and turned. As
he slammed it shut an arm shot through the opening. He forced the door against it with all his
strength until he heard bones snap, then he opened the door a little, shoved the broken arm out,
and slammed the door. With trembling hands he dropped the bar into place.
    Slowly he sank down onto the floor and fell on his back. He lay there in the darkness, his
chest rising and falling, his legs and arms like dead limbs on the floor. Outside they howled and
pummeled the door, shouting his name in a paroxysm of demented fury. They grabbed up bricks
and rocks and hurled them against the house and they screamed and cursed at him. He lay there
listening to the thud of the rocks and bricks against the house, listening to their howling.
    After a while he struggled up to the bar. Half the whisky he poured splashed onto the rug. He
threw down the contents of the glass and stood there shivering, holding onto the bar to support
his wobbling legs, his throat tight and convulsed; his lips shaking without control.
    Slowly the heat of the liquor expanded in his stomach and reached his body. His breath
slowed down, his chest stopped shuddering.
    He started as he heard the great crash outside.
    He ran to the peephole and looked out. His teeth grated together and a burst of rage filled him

          as be saw the station wagon lying on its side and saw them smashing in the windshield with
bricks and stones, tearing open the hood and smashing at the engine with insane club strokes,
denting the frame with their frenzied blows. As he watched, fury poured through him like a
current of hot acid and half formed curses sounded in his throat while his hands clamped into
great white fists at his sides.
    Turning suddenly, he moved to the lamp and tried to light it. It didn't work. With a snarl he
turned and ran into the kitchen. The refrigerator was out. He ran from one dark room to another.
The freezer was off; all the food would spoil. His house was a dead house.
     Fury exploded in him. Enough!
    His rage palsied hands ripped out the clothes from the bureau drawer until they closed on the
loaded pistols.
    Racing through the dark living room, he knocked up the bar across the door and sent it
clattering to the floor. Outside, they howled as they heard him opening the door. I'm coming
out, you bastards! his mind screamed out.
    He jerked open the door and shot the first one in the face. The man went spinning back off
the porch and two women came at him in muddy, torn dresses, their white arms spread to enfold
him. He watched their bodies jerk as the bullets struck them, then he shoved them both aside and
began firing his guns into their midst, a wild yell ripping back his bloodless lips.
    He kept firing the pistols until they were both empty.
    Then be stood on the porch clubbing them with insane blows, losing his mind almost
completely when the same ones he'd shot came rushing at him again. And when they tore the
guns out of his hands he used his fists and elbows and he butted with his head and kicked them
with his big shoes.
    It wasn't until the flaring pain of having his shoulder slashed open struck him that he realized
what he was doing and how hopeless his attempt was. Knocking aside two women, he backed
toward the door. A man's arm locked around his neck. He lurched forward, bending at the
waist, and toppled the man over his head into the others. He jumped back into the doorway,
gripped both sides of the frame and kicked out his legs like pistons, sending the men crashing
back into the shrubbery.
    Then, before they could get at him again, he slammed the door in their faces, locked it, bolted
it, and dropped the heavy bar into its slots.
    Robert Neville stood in the cold blackness of his house, listening to the vampires scream.
    He stood against the wall clubbing slowly and weekly at the plaster, tears streaming down his
bearded cheeks, his bleeding hand pulsing with pain. Everything was gone, everything.
    "Virginia," he sobbed like a lost, frightened child. "Virginia. Virginia."

                                               PART II: March 1976

                                           Chapter Six.



    THE HOUSE, AT LAST, was livable again.
    Even more so than before, in fact, for he had finally taken three days and soundproofed the
walls. Now they could scream and howl all they wanted and he didn't have to listen to them. He
especially liked not having to listen to Ben Cortman any more.
    It had all taken time and work. First of all was the matter of a new car to replace the one
they'd destroyed. This had been more difficult than he'd imagined.
    He had to get over to Santa Monica to the only Willys store he knew about. The Willys
station wagons were the only ones he had had any experience with, and this didn' t seem quite the
time to start experimenting. He couldn't walk to Santa Monica, so he had to try using one of the
many cars parked around the neighborhood. But most of them were inoperative for one reason
or another: a dead battery, a clogged fuel pump, no gasoline, flat tires.
    Finally, in a garage about a mile from the house, he found a car he could get started, and he
drove quickly to Santa Monica to pick up another station wagon. He put a new battery in it,
filled its tank with gasoline, put gasoline drums in the back, and drove home. He got back to the
house about an hour before sunset.
    He made sure of that.
    Luckily the generator had not been ruined. The vampires apparently had no idea of its
importance to him, for, except for a torn wire and a few cudgel blows, they had left it alone.
He'd managed to fix it quickly the morning after the attack and keep his frozen foods from
spoiling. He was grateful for that, because he was sure there were no places left where he could
get more frozen foods now that electricity was gone from the city.
    For the rest of it, he had to straighten up the garage and clean out the debris of broken bulbs,
fuses, wiring, plugs, solder, spare motor parts, and a box of seeds he'd put there once; he didn't
remember just when.
    The washing machine they had ruined beyond repair, forcing him to replace it. But that
wasn't hard. The worst part was mopping up all the gasoline they'd spilled from the drums.
They'd really outdone themselves spilling gasoline, he thought irritably while he mopped it up.
    Inside the house, he had repaired the cracked plaster, and as an added fillip he had put up
another wall mural to give a different appearance to the room.
    He'd almost enjoyed all the work once it was started. It gave him something to lose himself
in, something to pour all the energy of his still pulsing fury into. It broke the monotony of his
daily tasks: the carrying away of bodies, the repairing of the house's exterior, the hanging of
garlic.
    He drank sparingly during those days, managing to pass almost the entire day without a drink,
even allowing his evening drinks to assume the function of relaxing night-caps rather than
senseless escape. His appetite increased and he gained four pounds and lost a little belly. He
even slept nights, a tired sleep without the dreams.

             For a day or so he had played with the idea of moving to some lavish hotel suite. But the
thought of all the work he'd have to do to make it habitable changed his mind.
   No, he was all set in the house.
   Now he sat in the living room, listening to Mozart's Jupiter Symphony and wondering how he
was to begin, where he was to begin his investigation.
   He knew a few details, but these were only landmarks above the basic earth of cause. The
answer lay in something else. Probably in some fact he was aware of but did not adequately
appreciate, in some apparent knowledge he had not yet connected with the over-all picture.
   But what?
   He sat motionless in the chair, a sweat-beaded glass in his right hand, his eyes fastened on the
mural.
   It was a scene from Canada: deep northern woods, mysterious with green shadows, standing
aloof and motionless, heavy with the silence of manless nature. He stared into its soundless
green depths and wondered.
   Maybe if he went back. Maybe the answer lay in the past, in some obscure crevice of
memory. Go back, then, he told his mind, go back.
   It tore his heart out to go back.


    There had been another dust storm during the night. High, spinning winds had scoured the
house with grit, driven it through the cracks, sifted it through plaster pores, and left a hair-thin
layer of dust across all the furniture surfaces. Over their bed the dust filtered like fine powder,
settling in their hair and on their eyelids and under their nails, clogging their pores.
    Half the night he'd lain awake trying to single out the sound of Virginia's labored breathing.
But he couldn't hear anything above the shrieking, grating sound of the storm. For a while, in
the suspension between sleeping and waking, he had suffered the illusion that the house was
being sandpapered by giant wheels that held its framework between monstrous abrasive surfaces
and made it shudder.
     He'd never got used to the dust storms. That hissing sound of whirlwind granulation always
set his teeth on edge. The storms had never come regularly enough to allow him to adapt himself
to them. Whenever they came, he spent a restless, tossing night, and went to the plant the next
day with jaded mind and body.
    Now there was Virginia to worry about too.
    About four o'clock he awoke from a thin depression of sleep and realized that the storm had
ended. The contrast made silence a rushing noise in his ears.
    As he raised his body irritably to adjust his twisted pajamas, he noticed that Virginia was
awake. She was lying on her back and staring at the ceiling.
    "What's the matter?" he mumbled drowsily.
    She didn't answer.
    "Honey?"
    Her eyes moved slowly to him.
    "Nothing," she said. "Go to sleep."
    "How do you feel?"
    "The same."
    "Oh."
    He lay there for a moment looking at her.

             "Well," he said then and, turning on his side, closed his eyes.
   The alarm went off at six-thirty. Usually Virginia pushed in the stop, but when she failed to
do so, he reached over her inert body and did it himself. She was still on her back, still staring.
   "What is it?" he asked worriedly.
   She looked at him and shook her head on the pillow.
   "I don't know," she said. "I just can't sleep."
   "Why?"
   She made an indecisive sound.
   "Still feel weak?" he asked.
   She tried to sit up but she couldn't.
   "Stay there, hon," he said. "Don't move." He put his hand on her brow. "You haven't got
any fever," he told her.
   "I don't feel sick," she said. "Just . . tired."
   "You look pale."
   "I know. I look like a ghost."
   "Don't get up," he said.
   She was up.
   "I'm not going to pamper myself," she said. "Go ahead, get dressed. I'll be all right."
   "Don't get up if you don't feel good, honey."
   She patted his arm and smiled.
   "I'll be all right," she said. "You get ready."
   While he shaved he heard the shuffling of her slippers past the bathroom door. He opened the
door and watched her crossing the living room very slowly, her wrappered body weaving a little.
He went back in the bathroom shaking his head. She should have stayed in bed.
   The whole top of the washbasin was grimy with dust. The damn stuff was everywhere. He'd
finally been compelled to erect a tent over Kathy's bed to keep the dust from her face. He'd
nailed one edge of a shelter half to the wall next to her bed and let it slope over the bed, the other
edge held up by two poles lashed to the side of the bed.
   He didn't get a good shave because there was grit in the shaving soap and he didn't have time
for a second lathering. He washed off his face, got a clean towel from the hall closet, and dried
himself.
   Before going to the bedroom to get dressed he checked Kathy's room.
   She was still asleep, her small blonde head motionless on the pillow, her cheeks pink with
heavy sleep. He ran a finger across the top of the shelter half and drew it away gray with dust.
With a disgusted shake of his head he left the room.
   "I wish these damn storms would end," he said as he entered the kitchen ten minutes later.
"I'm sure . . ."
   He stopped talking. Usually she was at the stove turning eggs or Frenc h toast or pancakes,
making coffee. Today she was sitting at the table. On the stove coffee was percolating, but
nothing else was cooking.
   "Sweetheart, if you don't feel well, go back to bed," he told her. "I can fix my own
breakfast."
   "It's all right," she said. "I was just resting. I'm sorry. I'll get up and fry you some eggs."
   "Stay there," he said. "I'm not helpless."
   He went to the refrigerator and opened the door.
   "I'd like to know what this is going around," she said. "Half the people on the block have it,

          and you say that more than half the plant is absent."
   "Maybe it's some kind of virus," he said.
   She shook her head. "I don't know."
   "Between the storms and the mosquitoes and everyone being sick, life is rapidly becoming a
pain," he said, pouring orange juice out of the bottle. "And speak of the devil."
   He drew a black speck out of the orange juice in the glass.
   "How the hell they get in the refrigerator I'll never know," he said.
   "None for me, Bob," she said.
   "No orange juice?"
   "No."
   "Good for you."
   "No, thank you, sweetheart," she said, trying to smile.
   He put back the bottle and sat down across from her with his glass of juice.
   "You don't feel any pain?" he said. "No headache, nothing?"
   She shook her head slowly.
   "I wish I did know what was wrong," she said.
   "You call up Dr. Busch today."
   "I will," she said, starting to get up. He put his hand over hers.
   "No, no, sweetheart, stay there," he said.
   "But there's no reason why I should be like this." She sounded angry. That was the way
she'd been as long as he'd known her. If she became ill, it irritated her. She was annoyed by
sickness. She seemed to regard it as a personal affront.
   "Come on," he said, starting to get up. "I'll help you back to bed."
   "No, just let me sit here wit h you," she said. "I'll go back to bed after Kathy goes to school."
   "All right. Don't you want something, though?"
    "No."
   "How about coffee?"
   She shook her head.
   "You're really going to get sick if you don't eat," he said.
   "I'm just not hungry."
   He finished his juice and got up to fry a couple of eggs. He cracked them on the side of the
iron skillet and dropped the contents into the melted bacon fat. He got the bread from the drawer
and went over to the table with it.
   "Here, I'll put it in the toaster," Virginia said. "You watch your... Oh, God."
   "What is it?"
   She waved one hand weakly in front of her face.
   "A mosquito," she said with a grimace.
   He moved over and, after a moment, crushed it between his two palms.
   "Mosquitoes," she said. "Flies, sand fleas."
   "We are entering the age of the insect," he said.
   "It's not good," she said. "They carry diseases. We ought to put a net around Kathy's bed
too."
   "I know, I know," he said, returning to the stove and tipping the skillet so the hot fat ran over
the white egg surfaces. "I keep meaning to."
   "I don't think that spray works, either," Virginia said.
   "It doesn't?"

              "No."
   "My God, and it's supposed to be one of the best ones on the market."
   He slid the eggs onto a dish.
   "Sure you don't want some coffee?' he asked her.
   "No, thank you."
   He sat down and she handed him the buttered toast.
   "I hope to hell we're not breeding a race of superbugs," he said. "You remember that strain
of giant grasshoppers they found in Colorado?'
   "Yes."
   "Maybe the insects are . . . What's the word? Mutating."
   "What's that?"
   "Oh, it means they're ... changing. Suddenly. Jumping over dozens of small evolutionary
steps, maybe developing along lines they might not have followed at all if it weren't for . . ."
   Silence.
   "The bombings?" she said.
   "Maybe," he said.
   "Well, they're causing the dust storms. They're probably causing a lot of things."
   She sighed wearily and shook her head.
   "And they say we won the war," she said.
   "Nobody won it"
   "The mosquitoes won it."
   He smiled a little.
   "I guess they did," he said.
   They sat there for a few moments without talking and the only sound in the kitchen was the
clink of his fork on the plate and the cup on the saucer.
   "You looked at Kathy last night?" she asked.
   "I just looked at her now. She looks fine."
   "Good."
   She looked at him studiedly.
   "I've been thinking, Bob," she said. "Maybe we should send her east to your mother's until I
get better. It may be contagious."
   "We could," he said dubiously, "but if it's contagious, my mother's place wouldn't be any
safer than here."
   "You don't think so?" she asked. She looked worried.
   He shrugged. "I don't know, hon. I think probably she's just as safe here. If it starts to get
bad on the block, we'll keep her out of school."
   She started to say something, then stopped.
   "All right," she said.
   He looked at his watch.
   "I'd better finish up," he said.
   She nodded and he ate the rest of his breakfast quickly. While he was draining the coffee cup
she asked him if he had bought a paper the night before.
   "It's in the living room," he told her.
   "Anything new in it?'
   "No. Same old stuff. It's all over the country, a little here, a little there. They haven't been
able to find the germ yet."

             She bit her lower lip.
   "Nobody knows what it is?"
   "I doubt it. If anybody did they'd have surely said so by now.
   "But they must have some idea."
   "Everybody's got an idea. But they aren't worth anything."
   `What do they say?"
   He shrugged. "Everything from germ warfare on down."
   "Do you think it is?"
   "Germ warfare?"
   "Yes," she said.
   "The war's over," he said.
   "Bob," she said suddenly, "do you think you should go to work?"
   He smiled helplessly.
   "What else can I do?" he asked. "We have to eat."
   "I know, but . ."
   He reached across the table and felt how cold her hand was.
   "Honey, it'll be all right," he said.
   "And you think I should send Kathy to school?"
   "I think so," he said. "Unless the health authorities say schools have to shut down, I don't see
why we should keep her home. She's not sick."
   "But all the kids at school."
   "I think we'd better, though," he said.
   She made a tiny sound in her throat. Then she said, "All right. If you think so."
   "Is there anything you want before I go?" he asked.
   She shook her head.
   "Now you stay in the house today," he told her, "and in bed."
   "I will," she said. "As soon as I send Kathy off." He patted her hand. Outside, the car horn
sounded. He finished the coffee and went to the bathroom to rinse out his mouth. Then he got
his jacket from the hall closet and pulled it on.
   "Good-by, honey," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Take it easy, now."
   "Good-by," she said. "Be careful."
   He moved across the lawn, gritting his teeth at the residue of dust in the air. He could smell it
as he walked, a dry tickling sensation in his nasal passages.
   "Morning," he said, getting in the car and pulling the door shut behind him.
   "Good morning," said Ben Cortman.

                                                    Chapter Seven



   "DISTILLED FROM ALLIUM SATIVUM, a genus of Liliaceae comprising garlic, leek,
onion, shallot, and chive. Is of pale color and penetrating odor, containing several allyl
sulphides. Composition: water, 64.6%; protein, 6.8%; fat, 0.1%; carbohydrates, 26.3%; fiber,
0.8%; ash, l.4.%."
   There it was. He jiggled one of the pink, leathery cloves in his right palm. For seven months
now he'd strung them together into aromatic necklaces and hung them outside his house without
the remotest idea of why they chased the vampires away. It was time he learned why.
   He put the clove on the sink ledge. Leek, onion, shallot, and chive. Would they all work as
well as garlic? He'd really feel like a fool if they did, after searching miles around for garlic
when onions were everywhere.
   He mashed the clove to a pulp and smelled the acrid fluid on the thick cleaver blade.
   All right, what now? The past revealed nothing to help him; only talk of insect carriers and
virus, and they weren't the causes. He was sure of it.
   The past had brought something else, though; pain at remembering. Every recalled word had
been like, a knife blade twisting in him. Old wounds had been reopened with every thought of
her. He'd finally had to stop, eyes closed, fists clenched, trying desperately to accept the present
on its own terms and not yearn with his very flesh for the past. But only enough drinks to
stultify all introspection had managed to drive away the enervating sorrow that remembering
brought.
   He focused his eyes. All right, damn it, he told himself, do something!
   He looked at the text again, water--was it that? he asked himself. No, that was ridiculous; all
things had water in them. Protein? No. Fat? No. Carbohydrates? No. Fiber? No. Ash? No.
What then?
   "The characteristic odor and flavor of garlic are due to an essential oil amounting to about
0.2% of the weight, which consists mainly of allyl sulphide and allyl isothicyanate."
   Maybe the answer was there.
   Again the book: "Allyl sulphide may be prepared by heating mustard oil and potassium
sulphide at 100 degrees."
   His body thudded down into the living-room chair and a disgusted breath shuddered his long
frame. And where the hell do I get mustard oil and potassium sulphide? And the equipment to
prepare them in?
   That's great, he railed at himself. The first step, and already you've fallen flat on your face.
   He pushed himself up disgustedly and headed for the bar. But halfway through pouring a
drink he slammed down the bottle. No, by God, he had no intention of going on like a blind
man, plodding down a path of brainless, fruitless existence until old age or accident took him.
Either he found the answer or he ditched the whole mess, life included.
   He checked his watch. Ten-twenty A.M.; still time. He moved to the hallway resolutely and
checked through the telephone directories. There was a place in Inglewood.
   Four hours later he straightened up from the workbench with a crick in his neck and the allyl

          sulphide inside a hypodermic syringe, and in himself the first sense of real accomplishment since
his forced isolation began.
   A little excited, he ran to his car and drove out past the area he'd cleared out and marked with
chalked rods. He knew it was more than possible that some vampires might have wandered into
the cleared area and were hiding there again. But he had no time for searching.
   Parking his car, he went into a house and walked to the bedroom. A young woman lay there,
a coating of blood on her mouth.
   Flipping her over, Neville pulled up her skirt and injected the allyl sulphide into her soft,
fleshy buttock, then turned her over again and stepped back. For a half hour he stood there
watching her.
   Nothing happened.
   This doesn't make sense, his mind argued. I hang garlic around the house and the vampires
stay away. And the characteristic of garlic is the oil I've injected in her. But nothing's
happened.
   Goddamn it, nothing's happened!
   He flung down the syringe and, trembling with rage and frustration, went home again. Before
darkness, he built a small wooden structure on the front lawn and hung strings of onions on it.
He spent a listless night, only the knowledge that there was still much left to do keeping him
from the liquor.
   In the morning he went out and looked at the matchwood on his lawn.


   The cross. He held one in his hand, gold and shiny in the morning sun. This, too, drove the
vampires away. Why? Was there a logical answer, something he could accept without slipping
on banana skins of mysticism? There was only one way to find out.
   He took the woman from her bed, pretending not to notice the question posed in his mind:
Why do you always experiment on women? He didn't care to admit that the inference had any
validity. She just happened to be the first one he'd come across, that was all. What about the
man in the living mom, though? For God's sake! he flared back. I'm not going to rape the
woman!
   Crossing your fingers, Neville? Knocking on wood?
   He ignored that, beginning to suspect his mind of harboring an alien. Once he might have
termed it conscience. Now it was only an annoyance. Morality, after all, had fallen with society.
He was his own ethic.
    Makes a good excuse, doesn't it, Neville? Oh, shut up.
   But he wouldn't let himself pass the afternoon near her. After binding her to a chair, he
secluded himself in the garage and puttered around with the car. She was wearing a torn black
dress and too much was visible as she breathed. Out of sight, out of mind.... It was a lie, he
knew, but he wouldn't admit it.
   At last, mercifully, night came. He locked the garage door, went back to the house, and
locked the front door, putting the heavy bar across it. Then he made a drink and sat down on the
couch across from the woman.
   From the ceiling, right before her face, hung the cross. At six-thirty her eyes opened.
Suddenly, like the eyes of a sleeper who has a definite job to do upon awakening; who does not
move into consciousness with a vague entry, but with a single, clear-cut motion, knowing just
what is to be done.

             Then she saw the cross and she jerked her eyes from it with a sudden raffling gasp and her
body twisted in the chair.
   "Why are you afraid of it?" he asked, startled at the sound of his own voice after so long.
   Her eyes, suddenly on him, made him shudder. The way they glowed, the way her tongue
licked across her red lips as if it were a separate life in her mouth. The way she flexed her body
as if trying to move it closer to him. A guttural rumbling filled her throat like the sound of a dog
defending its bone.
   "The cross," he said nervously. "Why are you afraid of it?"
   She strained against her bonds, her hands raking across the sides of the chair. No words from
her, only a harsh, gasping succession of breaths. Her body writhed on the chair, her eyes burned
into him.
   "The cross!" he snapped angrily.
   He was on his feet, the glass falling and splashing across the rug. He grabbed the string with
tense fingers and swung the cross before her eyes. She flung her head away with a frightened
snarl and recoiled into the chair.
   "Look at it!" he yelled at her.
   A sound of terror stricken whining came from her. Her eyes moved wildly around the room,
great white eyes with pupils like specks of soot.
   He grabbed at her shoulder, then jerked his hand back. It was dribbling blood from raw teeth
wounds.
   His stomach muscles jerked in. The hand lashed out again, this time smashing her across the
cheek and snapping her head to the side.
   Ten minutes later he threw her body out the front door and slammed it again in their faces.
Then he stood there against the door breathing heavily. Faintly he heard through the
soundproofing the sound of them fighting like jackals for the spoils.
   Later he went to the bathroom and poured alcohol into the teeth gouges, enjoying fiercely the
burning pain in his flesh.

                                                   Chapter Eight



    NEVILLE BENT OVER AND picked up a little soil in his right hand. He ran it between his
fingers, crumbling the dark lumps into grit. How many of them, he wondered, slept in the soil,
as the story went?
    He shook his head. Precious few.
    Where did the legend fit in, then?
    He closed his eyes and let the dirt filter down slowly from his hand. Was there any answer?
If only he could remember whether those who slept in soil were the ones who had returned from
death. He might have theorized then.
    But he couldn't remember. Another unanswerable question, then. Add it to the question that
had occurred to him the night before.
    What would a Mohammedan vampire do if faced with a cross?
    The barking sound of his laugh in the silent morning air startled him. Good God, he thought,
it's been so long since I've laughed, I've forgotten how. It sounded like the cough of a sick
hound. Well, that's what I am, after all, isn't it? he decided. A very sick dog.
    There had been a light dust storm about four that morning. Strange how it brought back
memories. Virginia, Kathy, all those horrible days ...
    He caught himself. No, no, there was danger there. It was thinking of the past that drove him
to the bottle. He was just going to have to accept the present.
    He found himself wondering again why he chose to go on living. Probably, he thought,
there's no real reason. I'm just too dumb to end it all.
    Well--he clapped his hands with false decision--what now? He looked around as if there
were something to see along the stillness of Cimarron Street.
    All right, he decided impulsively, let's see if the running water bit makes sense.
    He buried a hose under the ground and ran it into a small trough constructed of wood. The
water ran through the trough and out another hole into more hosing, which conducted the water
into the earth.
    When he'd finished, he went in and took a shower, shaved, and took the bandage off his hand.
The wound had healed cleanly. But then, he hadn't been overly concerned about that. Time had
more than proved to him that he was immune to their infection.
    At six-twenty he went into the living room and stood before the peephole. He stretched a
little, grunting at the ache in his muscles. Then, when nothing happened, he made himself a
drink.
    When he got back to the peephole, be saw Ben Cortman come walking onto the lawn.
    "Come out, Neville," Robert Neville muttered, and Cortman echoed the words in a loud cry.
    Neville stood there motionless, looking at Ben Cortman.
    Ben hadn't changed much. His hair was still black, his body inclined to corpulence, his face
still white. But there was a beard on his face now; mostly under the nose, thinner around his
chin and cheeks and under his throat. That was the only real difference, though. Ben had always
been immaculately shaved in the old days, smelling of cologne each morning when he picked up

          Neville to drive to the plant.
    It was strange to stand there looking out at Ben Cortman; a Ben completely alien to him now.
Once he had spoken to that man, ridden to work with him, talked about cars and baseball and
politics with him, la ter on about the disease, about how Virginia and Kathy were getting along,
about how Freda Cortman was about.
    Neville shook his head. There was no point going into that. The past was as dead as
Cortman.
    Again he shook his head. The world's gone mad, he thought. The dead walk about and I
think nothing of it.
    The return of corpses has become trivial in import. How quickly one accepts the incredible if
only one sees it enough! Neville stood there, sipping his whisky and wondering who it was that
Ben reminded him of. He'd felt for some time that Cortman reminded him of somebody, but for
the life of him he couldn't think who.
    He shrugged. What was the difference?
    He put down the glass on the window sill and went into the kitchen. He turned on the water
there and went back in. When he reached the peephole, he saw another man and a woman on the
lawn. None of the three was speaking to either of the others. They never did. They walked and
walked about on restless feet, circling each other like wolves, never looking at each other once,
having hungry eyes only for the house and their prey inside the house.
    Then Cortman saw the water running through the trough and went over to look at it. After a
moment he lifted his white face and Neville saw him grinning.
    Neville stiffened.
    Cortman was jumping over the trough, then back again. Neville felt his throat tightening.
The bastard knew!
    With rigid legs he pistoned himself into the bedroom and, with shaking hands, pulled one of
his pistols out of the bureau drawer.
    Cortman was just about finishing stamping in the sides of the trough when the bullet struck
him in the left shoulder.
     He staggered back with a grunt and flopped onto the sidewalk with a kicking of legs. Neville
fired again and the bullet whined up off the cement, inches from Cortman's twisting body.
    Cortman started up with a snarl and the third bullet struck him full in the chest.
    Neville stood there watching, smelling the acrid fumes of the pistol smoke. Then the woman
blocked his view of Cortman and started jerking up her dress.
    Neville pulled back and slammed the tiny door over the peephole. He wasn't going to let
himself look at that. In the first second of it, he had felt that terrible heat dredging up from his
loins like something ravenous.
    Later he looked out again and saw Ben Cortman pacing around, calling for him to come out.
    And, in the moonlight, he suddenly realized who Cortman reminded him of. The idea made
his chest shudder with repressed laughter and he turned away as the shaking reached his
shoulders.
    My God--Oliver Hardy! Those old two-reelers he'd looked at with his projector. Cortman
was almost a dead ringer for the roly-poly comedian. A little less plump, that was all. Even the
mustache was there now.
    Oliver Hardy flopping on his back under the driving impact of bullets. Oliver Hardy always
coming back for more, no matter what happened. Ripped by bullets, punctured by knives,
flattened by cars, smashed under collapsing chimneys and boats, submerged in water, flung

          through pipes. And always returning, patient and bruised.
   That was who Ben Cortman was--a hideously malignant Oliver Hardy buffeted and long
suffering.
   My God, it was hilarious!
   He couldn't stop laughing because it was more than laughter; it was release. Tears flooded
down his cheeks. The glass in his hand shook so badly, the liquor spilled all over him and made
him laugh harder. Then the glass fell thumping on the rug as his body jerked with spasms of
uncontrollable amusement and the room was filled with his gasping, nerve-shattered laughter.
   Later, he cried.


   He drove it into the stomach, into the shoulder. Into the neck with a single mallet blow. Into
the legs and the arms, and always the same result: the blood pulsing out, slick and crimson, over
the white flesh.
   He thought he'd found the answer. It was a matter of losing the blood they lived by; it was
hemorrhage.
   But then he found the woman in the small green and white house, and when he drove in the
stake, the dissolution was so sudden it made him lurch away and lose his breakfast.
   When he had recovered enough to look again, he saw on the bedspread what looked like a
row of salt and pepper mixed; just about as long as the woman had been. It was the first time
he'd ever seen such a thing.
   Shaken by the sight, he went out of the house on trembling legs and sat in the car for an hour,
drinking the flask empty. But even liquor couldn't drive away the vision.
   It had been so quick. With the sound of the mallet blow still in his ears, she had virtually
dissolved before his eyes.
   He recalled talking once to a Negro at the plant. The man had studied mortuary science and
had told Robert Neville about the mausoleums where people were stored in vacuum drawers and
never changed their appearance.
   "But you just let some air in," the Negro had said, "and whoom!--they'll look like a row of
salt and pepper. Jus' like that!" And he snapped his fingers.
   The woman had been long dead, then. Maybe, the thought occurred, she was one of the
vampires who had originally started the plague. God only knew how many years she'd been
cheating death.
   He was too unnerved to do any more that day or for days to come. He stayed home and drank
to forget and let the bodies pile up on the lawn and let the outside of the house fall into disrepair.
   For days he sat in the chair with his liquor and thought about the woman. And, no matter how
hard he tried not to, no matter how much he drank, he kept thinking about Virginia. He kept
seeing himself entering the crypt, lifting the coffin lid.
   He thought he was coming down with something, so palsied and nerveless was his shivering,
so cold and ill did he feel.
   Is that what she looked like?

                                                    Chapter Nine




    MORNING. A SUN BRIGHT hush broken only by the chorus of birds in the trees. No
breeze to stir the vivid blossoms around the houses, the bushes, the dark- leaved hedges. A cloud
of silent heat was suspended over everything on Cimarron Street.
    Virginia Neville's heart had stopped.
    He sat beside her on the bed, looking down at her white face. He held her fingers in his hand,
his fingertips stroking and stroking. His body was immobile, one rigid, insensible block of flesh
and bone. His eyes did not blink, his mouth was a static line, and the movement of his breathing
was so slight that it seemed to have stopped altogether.
    Something had happened to his brain.
    In the second he had felt no heartbeat beneath his trembling fingers, the core of his brain
seemed to have petrified, sending out jagged lines of calcification until his head felt like stone.
Slowly, on palsied legs, he had sunk down on the bed. And now, vaguely, deep in the struggling
tissues of thought, he did not understand how he could sit there, did not understand why despair
did not crush him to the earth. But prostration would not come. Time was caught on hooks and
could not progress. Everything stood fixed. With Virginia, life and the world had shuddered to a
halt.
    Thirty minutes passed; forty.
    Then, slowly, as though he were discovering some objective phenomenon, he found his body
trembling. Not with a localized tremble, a nerve here, a muscle there. This was complete. His
body shuddered without end, one mass, entire of nerves without control, bereft of will. And
what operative mind was left knew that this was his reaction.
    For more than an hour he sat in this palsied state, his eyes fastened dumbly to her face.
    Then, abruptly, it ended, and with a choked muttering in his throat he lurched up from the bed
and left the room.
    Half the whisky splashed on the sink top as he poured. The liquor that managed to reach the
glass he bolted down in a swallow. The thin current flared its way down to his stomach, feeling
twice as intense in the polar numbness of his flesh. He stood, sagged against the sink. Hands
shaking, he filled the glass again to its top and gulped the burning whisky down with great
convulsive swallows.
    It's a dream, he argued vainly. It was as if a voice spoke the words aloud in his head.
    "Virginia..."
    He kept turning from one side to another, his eyes searching around the room as if there were
something to be found, as if he had mislaid the exit from this house of horror. Tiny sounds of
disbelief pulsed in his throat. He pressed his hands together, forcing the shaking palms against
each other, the twitching fingers intertwining confusedly.
    His hands began to shake so he couldn't make out their forms. With a gagging intake of
breath he jerked them apart and pressed them against his legs.
    "Virginia."

              He took a step and cried aloud as the room flung itself off balance. Pain exploded in his right
knee, sending hot barbs up his leg. He whined as he pushed himself up and stumbled to the
living room. He stood there like a statue in an earthquake, his marble eyes frozen on the
bedroom door.
    In his mind he saw a scene enacted once again.
    The great fire crackling, roaring yellow, sending its dense and grease-thick clouds into the
sky. Kathy's tiny body in his arms. The man coming up and snatching her away as if he were
taking a bundle of rags. The man lunging into the dark mist carrying his baby. Him standing
there while pile driver blows of horror drove him down with their impact.
    Then suddenly he had darted forward with a berserk scream.
    "Kathy!"
    The arms caught him, the men in canvas and masks drawing him back. His shoes gouged
frenziedly at the earth, digging two ragged trenches in the earth as they dragged him away. His
brain exploded, the terrified screams flooding from him.
    Then the sudden bolt of numbing pain in his jaw, the daylight swept over with clouds of
night. The hot trickle of liquor down his throat, the coughing, a gasping, and then he had been
sitting silent and rigid in Ben Cortman's car, staring as they drove away at the gigantic pail of
smoke that rose above the earth like a black wraith of all earth's despair.
    Remembering, he closed his eyes suddenly and his teeth pressed together until they ached.
    "No."
    He wouldn't put Virginia there. Not if they killed him for it.
    With a slow, stiff motion he walked to the front door and went out on the porch. Stepping off
onto the yellowing lawn, he started down the block for Ben Cortman's house. The glare of the
sun made his pupils shrink to points of jet. His hands swung useless and numbed at his sides.
    The chimes still played "How Dry I Am." The absurdity of it made him want to break
something in his hands. He remembered when Ben had put them in, thinking how funny it
would be.
    He stood rigidly before the door, his mind still pulsing. I don't care if it's the law, I don't care
if refusal means death, I won't put her there!
    His fist thudded on the door.
    "Ben!"
    Silence in the house of Ben Cortman. White curtains hung motionless in the front windows.
He could see the red couch, the floor lamp with the fringed shade, the upright Freda used to toy
with on Sunday afternoons.
    He blinked. What day was it? He had forgotten, he had lost track of the days.
    He twisted his shoulders as impatient fury hosed acids through his veins.
    "Ben!"
    Again the side of his hard fist pummeled the door, and the flesh along his whitening jaw line
twitched. Damn him, where was he? Neville jammed in the button with a brittle finger and the
chimes started the tippler's song over and over and over. "How dry I am, how dry I am, how dry
I am, how dry I..."
    With a frenzied gasp he lurched against the door and it flew open against the inside wall. It
had been unlocked.
    He walked into the silent living room.
    "Ben," he said loudly. "Ben, I need your car."
    They were in the bedroom, silent and still in their daytime comas, lying apart on the twin

          beds, Ben in pajamas, Freda in silk nightgown; lying on the sheets, their thick chests faltering
with labored breaths
     He stood there for a moment looking down at them. There were some wounds on Freda's
white neck that had crusted over with dried blood. His eyes moved to Ben. There was no wound
on Ben's throat and he heard a voice in his mind that said: If only I'd wake up.
    He shook his head. No, there was no waking up from this.
    He found the car keys on the bureau and picked them up. He turned away and left the silent
house behind. It was the last time he ever saw either of them alive.
    The motor coughed into life and he let it idle a few minutes, choke out, while he sat staring
out through the dusty windshield. A fly buzzed its bloated form around his head in the hot,
airless interior of the car. He watched the dull green glitter of it and felt the car pulsing under
him.
    After a moment he pushed in the choke and drove the car up the street. He parked it in the
driveway before his garage and turned off the motor.
    The house was cool and silent. His shoes scuffed quietly over the rug, then clicked on the
floor boards in the hall.
    He stood motionless in the doorway looking at her. She still lay on her back, arms at her
sides, the white fingers slightly curled in. She looked as if she were sleeping.
    He turned away and went back into the living room. What was be going to do? Choices
seemed pointless now. What did it matter what he did? Life would be equally purposeless no
matter what his decision was.
    He stood before the window looking out at the quiet, sun-drenched street, his eyes lifeless.
    Why did I get the car, then? he wondered. His throat moved as he swallowed. I can't burn
her, he thought. I won't. But what else was there? Funeral parlors were closed. What few
morticians were healthy enough to practice were prevented from doing so by law. Everyone
without exception had to be transported to the fires immediately upon death. It was the only way
they knew now to prevent communication. Only flames could destroy the bacteria that caused
the plague.
    He knew that. He knew it was the law. But how many people followed it? He wondered that
too. How many husbands took the women who had shared their life and love and dropped them
into flames? How many parents incinerated the children they adored, how many children tossed
their beloved parents on a bonfire a hundred yards square, a hundred feet deep?
    No, if there was anything left in the world, it was his vow that she would not be burned in the
fire.
    An hour passed before he finally reached a decision. Then he went and got her needle and
thread. He kept sewing until only her face showed. Then, fingers trembling, a tight knot in his
stomach, he sewed the blanket together over her mouth. Over her nose. Her eyes.
    Finished, he went in the kitchen and drank another glass of whisky. It didn't seem to affect
him at all.
    At last he went back to the bedroom on faltering legs. For a long minute he stood there
breathing hoarsely. Then he bent over and worked his arms under her inert form.
    "Come on, baby," he whispered.
    The words seemed to loosen everything. He felt himself shaking, felt the tears running slowly
down his cheeks as he carried her through the living room and outside.
    He put her in the back seat and got in the car. He took a deep breath and reached for the
starter button.

             He drew back. Getting out of the car again, he went into the garage and got the shovel.
   He twitched as he came out, seeing the man across the street approaching slowly. He put the
shovel in the back and got in the car.
   "Wait!"
   The man's shout was hoarse. The man tried to run, but he wasn't strong enough.
   Robert Neville sat there silently as the man came shuffling up.
   "Could you ... let me bring my ... my mother too?' the man said stiffly.
   "I...I...I..."
   Neville's brain wouldn't function. He thought he was going to cry again, but he caught
himself and stiffened his back.
   "I'm not going to the ... there," he said.
   The man looked at him blankly.
   "But your..."
   "I'm not going to the fire, I said!" Neville blurted out, and jabbed in the starter button.
   "But your wife," said the man. "You have your..."
   Robert Neville jerked the gear shift into reverse.
   "Please," begged the man.
   "I'm not going there!" Neville shouted without looking at the man.
   "But it's the law!" the man shouted back, suddenly furious.
   The car raced back quickly into the street and Neville jerked it around to face Compton
Boulevard. As he sped away he saw the man standing at the curb watching him leave. Fool! his
mind grated. Do you think I'm going to throw my wife into a fire?
   The streets were deserted. He turned left at Compton and started west. As he drove he
looked at the huge lot on the right side of the car. He couldn't use any of the cemeteries. They
were locked and watched. Men had been shot trying to bury their loved ones.
   He turned right at the next block and drove up one block, turned right again into a quiet street
that ended in the lot. Halfway up the block he cut the motor. He rolled the rest of the way so no
one would hear the car.
   No one saw him carry her from the car or carry her deep into the high- weeded lot. No one
saw him put her down on an open patch of ground and then disappear from view as he knelt.
   Slowly he dug, pushing the shovel into the soft earth, the bright sun pouring heat into the little
clearing like molten air into a dish. Sweat ran in many lines down his cheeks and forehead as he
dug, and the earth swam dizzily before his eyes. Newly thrown dirt filled his no strils with its
hot, pungent smell.
   At last the hole was finished. He put down the shovel and sagged down on his knees. His
body shuddered and sweat trickled over his face. This was the part he dreaded.
   But he knew he couldn't wait. If he was seen they would come out and get him. Being shot
was nothing. But she would be burned then. His lips tightened. No.
   Gently, carefully as he could, he lowered her into the shallow grave, making sure that her
head did not bump.
   He straightened up and looked down at her still body sewn up in the blanket. For the last
time, he thought. No more talking, no more loving. Eleven wonderful years ending in a filled- in
trench. He began to tremble. No, he ordered himself, there's no time for that
   It was no use. The wo rld shimmered through endless distorting tears while he pressed back
the hot earth, patting it around her still body with nerveless fingers.

              He lay fully clothed on his bed, staring at the black ceiling. He was half drunk and the
darkness spun with fireflies.
    His right arm faltered out for the table. His hand brushed the bottle over and he jerked out
clawing fingers too late. Then he relaxed and lay there in the still of night, listening to the
whisky gurgle out of the bottle mouth and spread across the floor.
    His unkempt hair rustled on the pillow as he looked toward the clock. Two in the morning.
Two days since he'd buried her. Two eyes looking at the clock, two ears picking up the hum of
its electric chronology, two lips pressed together, two hands lying on the bed.
    He tried to rid himself of the concept, but everything in the world seemed suddenly to have
dropped into a pit of duality, victim to a system of twos. Two people dead, two beds in the
room, two windows, two bureaus, two rugs, two hearts that...
    His chest filled with night air, held, then pushed it out and sank abruptly. Two days, two
hands, two eyes, two legs, two feet...
    He sat up and dropped his legs over the edge of the bed.
    His feet landed in the puddle of whisky and, he felt it soaking through his socks. A cold
breeze was rattling the window blinds.
    He stared at the blackness. What's left? he asked himself. What's left, anyway?
    Wearily he stood up and stumbled into the bathroom, leaving wet tracks behind him. He
threw water into his face and fumbled for a towel.
    What's left? What's...
    He stood suddenly rigid in the cold blackness.
    Someone was turning the knob on the front door.
    He felt a chill move up the back of his neck and his scalp began prickling. It's Ben, he heard
his mind offering. He's come for the car keys.
    The towel slipped from his fingers and he heard it swish down onto the tiles. His body
twitched.
    A fist thudded against the door, strengthless, as if it had fallen against the wood.
    He moved into the living room slowly, his heartbeat thudding heavily.
    The door rattled as another fist thudded against it weakly. He felt himself twitch at the sound.
What's the matter? he thought. The door is open. From the open window a cold breeze blew
across his face. The darkness drew him to the door.
    "Who," he murmured, unable to go on.
    His hand recoiled from the doorknob as it turned under his fingers. With one step, he backed
into the wall and stood there breathing harshly, his widened eyes staring.
    Nothing happened. He stood there holding himself rigidly.
    Then his breath was snuffed. Someone was mumbling on the porch, muttering words he
couldn't hear. He braced himself; then, with a lunge, he jerked open the door and let the
moonlight in.
    He couldn't even scream. He just stood rooted to the spot, staring dumbly at Virginia.
    "Rob ... ert," she said.

                                                      Chapter Ten



    THE SCIENCE ROOM WAS on the second floor. Robert Neville's footsteps thudded
hollowly up the marble steps of the Los Angeles Public Library. It was April 7, 1976.
    It had come to him, after a half week of drinking, disgust, and desultory investigation, that he
was wasting his time. Isolated experiments were yielding nothing, that was clear. If there was a
rational answer to the problem (and he had to believe that there was), he could only find it by
careful research.
    Tentatively, for want of better knowledge, he had set up a possible basis, and that was blood.
It provided, at least, a starting point. Step number one, then, was reading about blood.
    The silence of the library was complete save for the thudding of his shoes as he walked along
the second- floor hallway. Outside, there were birds sometimes and, even lacking that, there
seemed to be a sort of sound outside.
    Inexplicable, perhaps, but it never seemed as deathly still in the open as it did inside. a
building.
    Especially here in this giant, gray-stoned building that housed the literature of a world's dead.
Probably it was being surrounded by walls, he thought, something purely psychological. But
knowing that didn't make it any easier. There were no psychiatrists left to murmur of groundless
neuroses and auditory hallucinations. The last man in the world was irretrievably stuck with his
delusions.
    He entered the Science Room.
    It was a high-ceilinged room with tall, large-paned windows. Across from the doorway was
the desk where books had been checked out in days when books were still being checked out.
    He stood there for a moment looking around the silent room, shaking his head slowly. All
these books, he thought, the residue of a planet's intellect, the scrapings of futile minds, the
leftovers, the potpourri of artifacts that had no power to save men from perishing.
    His shoes clicked across the dark tiles as he walked to the beginning of the shelves on his left.
His eyes moved to the cards between the shelf sections. `Astronomy', he read; books about the
heavens. He moved by them. It was not the heavens he was concerned about. Man's lust for the
stars had died with the others. `Physics', `Chemistry', `Engineering'. He passed them by and
entered the main reading section of the Science Room.
    He stopped and looked up at the high ceiling. There were two banks of dead lights overhead
and the ceiling was divided into great sunken squares, each square decorated with what looked
like Indian mosaics. Morning sunlight filtered through the dusty windows and he saw motes
floating gently on the current of its beams.
    He looked down the row of long wooden tables with chairs lined up before them. Someone
had put them in place very neatly. The day the library was shut down, he thought, some maiden
librarian had moved down the room, pushing each chair against its table. Carefully, with a
plodding precision that was the cachet of herself.
    He thought about that visionary lady. To die, he thought, never knowing the fierce joy and
attendant comfort of a loved one's embrace. To sink into that hideous coma, to sink them into

          death and, perhaps, return to sterile, awful wanderings. All without knowing what it was to love
and be loved.
    That was a tragedy more terrible than becoming a vampire.
    He shook his head. All right, that's enough, he told himself, you haven't got the time for
maudlin reveries.
    He bypassed books until he came to `Medicine'. That was what he wanted. He looked
through the titles. Books on hygiene, on anatomy, on physiology (general and specialized), on
curative practices. Farther down, on bacteriology.
    He pulled out five books on general physiology and several works on blood. These he
stacked on one of the dust-surfaced tables. Should he get any of the books on bacteriology? He
stood a minute, looking indecisively at the buckram backs.
    Finally he shrugged. Well, what's the difference? he thought. They can't do any harm. He
pulled out several of them at random and added them to the pile. He now had nine books on the
table. That was enough for a start. He expected he'd be coming back.
    As he left the Science Room, he looked up at the clock over the door.
    The red hands had stopped at four-twenty-seven. He wondered what day they had stopped.
As he descended the stairs with his armful of books, he wondered at just what moment the clock
had stopped. Had it been morning or night? Was it raining or shining? Was anyone there when
it stopped?
    He twisted his shoulders irritably. For God's sake, what's the difference? he asked himself.
He was getting disgusted at this increasing nostalgic preoccupation with the past. It was a
weakness, he knew, a weakness he could scarcely afford if he intended to go on. And yet he kept
discovering himself drifting into extensive meditation on aspects of the past. It was almost more
than he could control, and it was making him furious with himself.
    He couldn't get the huge front doors open from the inside, either; they were too well locked.
He had to go out through the broken window again, first dropping the books to the sidewalk one
at a time, then himself. He took the books to his car and got in.
    As he started the car, he saw that he was parked along a red-painted curb, facing in the wrong
direction on a one-way street. He looked up and down the street.
    "Policeman!" he found himself calling. "Oh, policeman!"
    He laughed for a mile without stopping, wondering just what was so funny about it.


   He put down the book. He'd been reading again about the lymphatic system. He vaguely
remembered reading about it months before, during the time he now called his `frenzied period'.
But what he'd read had made no impression on him then because he'd had nothing to apply it to.
   There seemed to be something there now.
   The thin walls of the blood capillaries permitted blood plasma to escape into the tissue spaces
along with the red and colorless cells. These escaped materials eventually returned to the blood
system through the lymphatic vessels, carried back by the thin fluid called lymph.
   During this return flow, the lymph trickled through lymph nodes, which interrupted the flow
and filtered out the solid particles of body waste, thus preventing them from entering the blood
system.
   Now.
   There were two things that activated the lymphatic system: (1) breathing, which caused the
diaphragm to compress the abdominal contents, thus forcing blood and lymph up against gravity;

          (2) physical movement, which caused skeletal muscles to compress lymph vessels, thus moving
the lymph. An intricate valve system prevented any backing up of the flow.
    But the vampires didn't breathe; not the dead ones, anyway. That meant, roughly, that half of
their lymph flow was cut off. This meant, further, that a considerable amount of waste products
would be left in the vampire's system.
    Robert Neville was thinking particularly of the fetid odor of the vampire.
    He read on
    "The bacteria passes into the blood stream, where..."
    "--the white corpuscles playing a vital part in our defense against bacteria attack."
    "Strong sunlight kills many germs rapidly and..."
    "Many bacterial diseases of man can be disseminated by the mechanical agency of flies,
mosquitoes..."
    "--where, under the stimulus of bacterial attack, the phagocytic factories rush extra cells into
the blood stream."
    He let the book drop forward into his lap and it slipped off, his legs and thumped down on the
rug.
    It was getting harder and harder to fight, because no matter what he read, there was always the
relationship between bacteria and blood affliction. Yet, all this time, he'd been letting contempt
fall freely on all those in the past who had died proclaiming the truth of the germ theory and
scoffing at vampires.
    He got up and made himself a drink. But it sat untouched as he stood before the bar. Slowly,
rhythmically, he thudded his right fist down on the top of the bar while his eyes stared bleakly at
the wall.
    Germs.
    He grimaced. Well, for God's sake, he snapped jadedly at himself, the word hasn't got
thorns, you know. He took a deep breath. All right, he ordered himself, is there any reason why
it couldn't be germs?
    He turned away from the bar as if he could leave the question there. But questions had no
location; they could follow him around.
    He sat in the kitchen staring into a steaming cup of coffee. Germs. Bacteria. Viruses.
Vampires. Why am I so against it? he thought. Was it just reactionary stubbornness, or was it
that the task would loom as too tremendous for him if it were germs?
    He didn't know. He started out on a new course, the course of compromise. Why throw out
either theory? One didn't necessarily negate the other. Dual acceptance and correlation, he
thought.
    Bacteria could be the answer to the vampire.
    Everything seemed to flood over him then. It was as though he'd been the little Dutch boy
with his finger in the dike, refusing to let the sea of reason in. There he'd been, crouching and
content with his iron-bound theory. Now he'd straightened up and taken his finger out. The sea
of answers was already beginning to wash in.
    The plague had spread so quickly. Could it have done that if only vampires had spread it?
Could their nightly marauding have propelled it on so quickly?
    He felt himself jolted by the sudden answer. Only if you accepted bacteria could you explain
the fantastic rapidity of the plague, the geometrical mounting of victims.
    He shoved aside the coffee cup, his brain pulsing with a dozen different ideas. The flies and
mosquitoes had been a part of it. Spreading the disease, causing it to race through the world.

              Yes, bacteria explained a lot of things; the staying in by day, the coma enforced by the germ
to protect itself from sun radiation.
    A new idea: What if the bacteria were the strength of the true vampire? He felt a shudder run
down his back. Was it possible that the same germ that killed the living provided the energy for
the dead?
    He had to know! He jumped up and almost ran out of the house. Then, at the last moment, he
jerked back from the door with a nervous laugh. God's sake, he thought, am I going out of my
mind? It was nighttime. He grinned and walked restlessly around the living room.
    Could it explain the other things? The stake? His mind fell over itself trying to fit that into
the framework of bacterial causation. Come on! he shouted impatiently in his mind. But all he
could think of was hemorrhage, and that didn't explain that woman. And it wasn't the heart....He
skipped it, afraid that his new- found theory would start to collapse before he'd established it.
    The cross, then. No, bacteria couldn't explain that. The soil; no, that was no help. Running
water, the mirror, garlic...He felt himself trembling without control and he wanted to cry out
loudly to stop the runaway horse of his brain. He had to find something! Goddamn it! he raged
in his mind. I won't let it go!
    He made himself sit down. Trembling and rigid, he sat there and blanked his mind until calm
took over. Good Lord, he thought finally, what's the matter with me? I get an idea, and when it
doesn't explain everything in the first minute, I panic. I must be going crazy.
    He took that drink now; he needed it. He held up his glass, it was shaking. All right, little
boy, he tried kidding himself, calm down now. Santa Claus is coming to town with all the nice
answers. No longer will you be a weird Robinson Crusoe, imprisoned on an island of night
surrounded by oceans of death.
    He snickered at that, and it relaxed him. Colorful, he thought, tasty. The last man in the
world is Edgar Guest.
    All right, then, he ordered himself, you're going to bed. You're not going to go flying off in
twenty different directions. You can't take that any more; you're an emotional misfit.
    The first step was to get a microscope. That is the first step, he kept repeating forcefully to
himself as he undressed for bed, ignoring the tight ball of indecision in his stomach, the almost
painful craving to plunge directly into investigation without any priming.
    He almost felt ill, lying there in the darkness and planning just one step ahead. He knew it
had to be that way, though. That is the first step, that is the first step. Goddamn your bones, that
is the first step.
    He grinned in the darkness, feeling good about the definite work ahead.
    One thought on the problem he allowed himself before sleeping. The bitings, the insects, the
transmission from person to person--were even these enough to explain the horrible speed with
which the plague spread?
    He went to sleep with the question in his mind. And, about three n the morning, he woke up
to find the house buffeted by another dust storm. And suddenly, in the flash of a second, he
made the connection.

                                                    Chapter Eleven



    THE FIRST ONE HE got was worthless.
    The base was so poorly leveled that any vibration at all disturbed it. The action of its moving
parts was loose to the point of wobbling. The mirror kept moving out of position because its
pivots weren't tight enough. Moreover, the instrument had no substage to hold condenser or
polarizer. It had only one nosepiece, so that he had to remove the object lens when he wanted
any variation in magnification. The lenses were impossible.
    But, of course, he knew nothing about microscopes, and he'd taken the first one he'd found.
Three days later he hurled it against the wall with a strangled curse and stamped it into pieces
with his heels.
    Then, when he'd calmed down, he went to the library and got a book on microscopes.
    The next time he went out, he didn't come back until he'd found a decent instrument; triple
nose stage, substage for condenser and polarizer, good base, smooth movement, iris diaphragm,
good lenses. It's just one more example, he told himself, of the stupidity of starting off half-
cocked. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he answered disgustedly.
    He forced himself to spend a good amount of time familiarizing himself with the instrument.
He fiddled with the mirror until he could direct a beam of light on the object in a matter of
seconds. He acquainted himself with the lenses, varying from a three- inch power to a one-
twelfth- inch power. In the case of the latter, he learned to place a drop of cedar-wood oil on the
slide, then rack down until the lens touched the oil. He broke thirteen slides doing it.
    Within three days of steady attention, he could manipulate the milled adjustment heads
rapidly, could control the iris diaphragm and condenser to get exactly the right amount of light
on the slide, and was soon getting a sharply defined clarity with the ready- made slides he'd got.
He never knew a flea looked so godawful.
    Next came mounting, a process much more difficult, he soon discovered. No matter how he
tried, he couldn't seem to keep dust particles out of the mount. When he looked at them in the
microscope, it looked as if he were examining boulders.
    It was especially difficult because of the dust storms, which still occurred on an average of
once every four days. He was ultimately obliged to build a shelter over the bench.
    He also learned to be systematic while experimenting with the mounts. He found that
continually searching for things allowed that much more time for dust to accumulate on his
slides. Grudgingly, almost amused, he soon had a place for everything. Glass slips, cover
glasses, pipettes, cells, forceps, Petri dishes, needles, chemicals--all were placed in systematic
locations.
    He found, to his surprise, that he actually gleaned pleasure from practicing orderliness. I
guess I got old Fritz's blood in me, after all, he thought once in amusement.
    Then he got a specimen of blood from a woman.
    It took him days to get a few drops properly mounted in a cell, the cell properly centered on
the slide. For a while he thought he'd never get it right.
    But then the morning came when, casually, as if it were only of minor import, he put his

          thirty-seventh slide of blood under the lens, turned on the spotlight, adjusted the draw tube and
mirror, racked down and adjusted the diaphragm and condenser. Every second that passed
seemed to increase the heaviness of his heartbeat, for somehow he knew this was the time.
   The moment arrived; his breath caught. It wasn't a virus, then. You couldn't see a virus.
And there, fluttering delicately on the slide, was a germ. I dub thee vampiris. The words crept
across his mind as he stood looking down into the eyepiece.
   By checking in one of the bacteriology texts, he'd found that the cylindrical bacterium he saw
was a bacillus, a tiny rod of protoplasm that moved itself through the blood by means of tiny
threads that projected from the cell envelope. These hairlike flagella lashed vigorously at the
fluid medium and propelled the bacillus.
   For a long time he stood looking into the microscope, unable to think or continue with the
investigation. All he could think was that here, on the slide, was the cause of the vampire. All
the centuries of fearful superstition had been felled in the moment he had seen the germ.
   The scientists had been right, then; there were bacteria involved. It had taken him, Robert
Neville, thirty-six, survivor, to complete the inquest and announce the murderer--the germ
within the vampire.
   Suddenly a massive weight of despair fell over him. To have the answer now when it was too
late was a crushing blow. He tried desperately to fight the depression, but it held on. He didn't
know where to start, he felt utterly helpless before the problem. How could he ever hope to cure
those still living? He didn't know anything about bacteria.
   Well, I will know! he raged inside. And he forced himself to study.


    Certain kinds of bacilli, when conditions became unfavorable for life, were capable of
creating, from themselves, bodies called spores. What they did was condense their cell contents
into an oval body with a thick wall. This body, when completed, detached itself from the
bacillus and became a free spore, highly resistant to physical and chemical change. Later, when
conditions were more favorable for survival, the spore germinated again, bringing into existence
all the qualities of the original bacillus.
    Robert Neville stood before the sink, eyes closed, hands clasped tightly at the edge.
Something there, he told himself forcefully, something there. But what?
    Suppose, he predicated, the vampire got no blood. Conditions then for the vampiris bacillus
would be unfavorable.
    Protecting itself, the germ sporulates; the vampire sinks into a coma. Finally, when
conditions become favorable again, the vampire walks again, its body still the same.
    But how would the germ know if blood were available? He slammed a fist on the sink in
anger. He read again. There was still something there. He felt it.
    Bacteria, when not properly fed, metabolized abnormally and produced bacteriophages
(inanimate, self-reproducing proteins). These bacteriophages destroyed the bacteria.
    When no blood came in, the bacilli would metabolize abnormally, absorb water, and swell up,
ultimately to explode and destroy all cells.
    Sporulation again; it had to fit in.
    All right, suppose the vampire didn't go into a coma. Suppose its body decomposed without
blood. The germ still might sporulate and--Yes! The dust storms!
    The freed spores would be blown about by the storms. They could lodge in minute skin
abrasions caused by the scaling dust. Once in the skin, the spore could germinate and multiply

          by fission. As this multiplication progressed, the surrounding tissues would be destroyed, the
channels plugged with bacilli. Destruction of tissue cells and bacilli would liberate poisonous,
decomposed bodies into surrounding healthy tissues. Eventually the poisons would reach the
blood stream.
    Process complete.
    And all without blood-eyed vampires hovering over heroines' beds. All without bats
fluttering against estate windows, all without the supernatural.
    The vampire was real. It was only that his true story had never been told.
    Considering that, Neville recounted the historical plagues.
    He thought about the fall of Athens. That had been very much like the plague of 1975.
Before anything could be done, the city had fallen. Historians wrote of bubonic plague. Robert
Neville was inclined to believe that the vampire had caused it.
    No, not the vampire. For now, it appeared, that prowling, vulpine ghost was as much a tool of
the germ as the living innocents who were originally afflicted. It was the germ that was the
villain. The germ that hid behind obscuring veils of legend and superstition, spreading its
scourge while people cringed before their own fears.
    And what of the Black Plague, that horrible blight that swept across Europe, leaving in its
wake a toll of three fourths of the population?
    Vampires?


   By ten that night, his head ached and his eyes felt like hot blobs of gelatin. He discovered that
he was ravenous. He got a steak from the freezer, and while it was broiling he took a fast
shower.
   He jumped a little when a rock hit the side of the house. Then he grinned wryly. He'd been
so absorbed all day that he'd forgotten about the pack of them that prowled around his house.
   While he was drying himself, he suddenly realized that he didn't know what portion of the
vampires who came nightly were physically alive and what portion were activated entirely by the
germ. Odd, he thought, that he didn't know. There had to be both kinds, because some of them
he shot without success, while others had been destroyed. He assumed that the dead ones could
somehow withstand bullets.
   Which brought up another point. Why did the living ones come to his house? Why just those
few and not everyone in that area?
   He had a glass of wine with his steak and was amazed how flavorsome everything was. Food
usually tasted like wood to him. I must have worked up an appetite today, he thought.
   Furthermore, he hadn't had a single drink. Even more fantastic, he hadn't wanted one. He
shook his head. It was painfully obvious that liquor was an emotional solace to him.
   The steak he finished to the bone, and he even chewed on that. Then he took the rest of the
wine into the living room, turned on the record player, and sat down in his chair with a tired
grunt.
   He sat listening to Ravel's Daphnis and Chloe Suites One and Two, all the lights off except
the spotlight on the woods. He managed to forget all about vampires for a while.
   Later, though, he couldn't resist taking another look in the microscope.
   You bastard, he thought, almost affectionately, watching the minuscule protoplasm fluttering
on the slide. You dirty little bastard.

                                                   Chapter Twelve



    THE NEXT DAY STANK.
    The sun lamp killed the germs on the slide, but that didn't explain anything to him.
    He mixed allyl sulphide with the germ-ridden blood and nothing happened. The allyl
sulphide was absorbed, the germs still lived.
    He paced nervously around the bedroom.
    Garlic kept them away and blood was the fulcrum of their existence. Yet, mix the essence of
garlic with the blood and nothing happened. His hands closed into angry fists.
    Wait a minute; that blood was from one of the living ones.
    An hour later he had a sample of the other kind. He mixed it with allyl sulphide and looked at
it through the microscope. Nothing happened.
    Lunch stuck in his throat.
    What about the stake, then? All he could think of was hemorrhage, and he knew it wasn't
that. That damned woman.
    He tried half the afternoon to think of something concrete. Finally, with a snarl, he knocked
the microscope over and stalked into the living room. He thudded down onto the chair and sat
there, tapping impatient fingers on the arm.
    Brilliant, Neville, he thought. You're uncanny. Go to the head of the class. He sat there,
biting a knuckle. Let's face it, he thought miserably, I lost my mind a long time ago. I can't
think two days in succession without having seams come loose. I'm useless, worthless, without
value, a dud.
    All right, he replied with a shrug, that settles it. Let's get back to the problem. So he did.
    There are certain things established, he lectured himself. There is a germ, it's transmitted,
sunlight kills it, garlic is effective. Some vampires sleep in soil, the stake destroys them. They
don't turn into wolves or bats, but certain animals acquire the germ and become vampires.
    All right.
    He made a list. One column he headed "Bacilli," the other he headed with a question mark.
    He began.
    The cross. No, that couldn't have anything to do with the bacilli. If anything, it was
psychological.
    The soil. Could there be something in the soil that affected the germ? No. How would it get
in the blood stream? Besides, very few of them slept in the soil.
    His throat moved as he added the second item to the column headed by a question mark.
    Running water. Could it be absorbed porously and...
    No, that was stupid. They came out in the rain, and they wouldn't if it harmed them. Another
notation in the right-hand column. His hand shook a little as he entered it.
    Sunlight. He tried vainly to glean satisfaction from putting down one item in the desired
column.
    The stake. No. His throat moved. Watch it, he warned. The mirror. For God's sake, how
could a mirror have anything to do with germs? His hasty scrawl in the right-hand column was

          hardly legible. His hand shook a little more.
    Garlic. He sat there, teeth gritted. He had to add at least one more item to the bacilli column;
it was almost a point of honor. He struggled over the last item. Garlic, garlic. It must affect the
germ. But how?
    He started to write in the right-hand column, but before he could finish, fury came from far
down like lava shooting up to the crest of a volcano.
    Damn!
    He crumpled the paper into a ball in his fist and hurled it away. He stood up, rigid and
frenzied, looking around. He wanted to break things, anything. So you thought your frenzied
period was over, did you! he yelled at himself, lurching forward to fling over the bar.
    Then he caught himself and held back. No, no, don't get started, he begged. Two shaking
hands ran through his lank blond hair. His throat moved convulsively and he shuddered with the
repressed craving for violence.
    The sound of the whisky gurgling into the glass angered him. He turned the bottle upside
down and the whisky spurted out in great gushes, splashing up the sides of the glass and over
onto the mahogany top of the bar.
    He swallowed the whole glassful at once, head thrown back, whisky running out the edges of
his mouth.
    I'm an animal! he exulted. I'm a dumb, stupid animal and I'm going to drink!
    He emptied the glass, then flung it across the room. It bounced off the bookcase and rolled
across the rug. Oh, so you won't break, won't you! he rasped inside his head, leaping across the
rug to grind the glass into splinters under his heavy shoes.
    Then he spun and stumbled to the bar again. He filled another glass and poured the contents
down his throat. I wish I had a pipe with whisky in it! he thought. I'd connect a goddamn hose
to it and flush whisky down me until it came out my ears! Until I floated in it!
    He flung away the glass. Too slow, too slow, damn it! He drank directly from the uptilted
bottle, gulping furiously, hating himself, punishing himself with the whisky burning down his
rapidly swallowing throat.
    I'll choke myself! he stormed. I'll strangle myself, I'll drown myself in whisky! Like
Clarence in his malmsey, I'll die, die, die!
    He hurled the empty bottle across the room and it shattered on the wall mural. Whisky ran
down the tree trunks and onto the ground. He lurched across the room and picked up a piece of
the broken bottle. He slashed at the mural and the jagged edge sliced through the scene and
peeled it away from the wall. There! he thought, his breath like steam escaping. That for you!
    He flung the glass away, then looked down as he felt dull pain in his fingers. He'd sliced
open the flesh.
    Good! he exulted viciously, and pressed on each side of the slices until the blood ran out and
fell in big drops on the rug. Bleed to death, you stupid, worthless bastard!
    An hour later he was totally drunk, lying flat on the floor with a vacuous smile on his face.
    World's gone to hell. No germs, no science. World's fallen to the supernatural, it's a
supernatural world. Harper's Bizarre and Saturday Evening Ghost and Ghoul Housekeeping.
`Young Dr. Jekyll' and `Dracula's Other Wife' and `Death Can Be Beautiful'. `Don't be half-
staked' and Smith Brothers' Coffin Drops.
    He stayed drunk for two days and planned on staying drunk till the end of time or the world's
whisky supply, whichever came first.
    And he might have done it, too, if it hadn't been for a miracle.

              It happened on the third morning, when he stumbled out onto the porch to see if the world was
still there.
    There was a dog roving about on the lawn.
    The second it heard him open the front door, it stopped snuffling over the grass, its head
jerked up in sudden fright, and it bounded off to the side with a twitch of scrawny limbs.
    For a moment Robert Neville was so shocked he couldn't move. He stood petrified, staring at
the dog, which was limping quickly across the street, its ropelike tail pulled between its legs.
    It was alive! In the daytime! He lurched forward with a dull cry and almost pitched on his
face on the lawn. His legs pistoned, his arms flailed for balance. Then he caught himself and
started running after the dog.
    "Hey!" he called, his hoarse voice breaking the silence of Cimarron Street. "Come back
here!"
    His shoes thudded across the sidewalk and off the curb, every step driving a battering ram into
his head. His heart pulsed heavily.
    "Hey!" he called again. "Come `ere, boy."
    Across the street, the dog scrambled unsteadily along the sidewalk, its right hind leg curled
up, its dark claws clicking on the cement.
    "Come `ere, boy, I won't hurt you!" Robert Neville called out.
    Already he had a stitch in his side and his head throbbed with pain as he ran. The dog stopped
a moment and looked back. Then it darted in between two houses, and for a moment Neville
saw it from the side. It was brown and white, breedless, its left ear hanging in shreds, its gaunt
body wobbling as it ran.
    "Don't run away!"
    He didn't hear the shrill quiver of hysteria in his voice as he screamed out the words. His
throat choked up as the dog disappeared between the houses. With a grunt of fear he hobbled on
faster, ignoring the pain of hangover, everything lost in the need to catch that dog.
    But when he got into the back yard the dog was gone.
    He ran to the redwood fence and looked over. Nothing. He twisted back suddenly to see if
the dog were going back out the way it had entered.
    There was no dog.
    For an hour he wandered around the neighborhood on trembling legs, searching vainly,
calling out every few moments, "Come `ere, boy, come `ere."
    At last he stumbled home, his face a mask of hopeless dejection. To come across a living
being, after all this time to find a companion, and then to lose it. Even if it was only a dog. Only
a dog? To Robert Neville that dog was the peak of a planet's evolution.
    He couldn't eat or drink anything. He found himself so ill and trembling at the shock and the
loss that he had to lie down. But he couldn't sleep. He lay there shaking feverishly, his head
moving from side to side on the flat pillow.
    "Come `ere, boy," he kept muttering witho ut realizing it. "Come `ere, boy, I won't hurt you."
    In the afternoon he searched again. For two blocks in each direction from his house he
searched each yard, each street, each individual house. But he found nothing.
    When he got home, about five, he put out a bowl of milk and a piece of hamburger. He put a
ring of garlic bulbs around it, hoping the vampires wouldn't touch it.
    But later it came to him that the dog must be afflicted too, and the garlic would keep it away
also. He couldn't understand that. If the dog had the germ, how could it roam outdoors during
the daylight hours? Unless it had such a small dosing of bacilli in its veins that it wasn't really

          affected yet. But, if that were true, how had it survived the nightly attacks?
    Oh, my God, the thought came then, what if it comes back tonight for the meat and they kill
it? What if he went out the next morning and found the dog's body on the lawn and knew that he
was responsible for its death? I couldn't take that, he thought miserably. I'll blow out my brains
if that happens, I swear I will.
    The thought dredged up again the endless enigma of why he went on. All right, there were a
few possibilities for experiment now, but life was still a barren, cheerless trial. Despite
everything he had or might have (except, of course, another human being), life gave no promise
of improvement or even of change. The way things shaped up, he would live out his life with no
more than he already had. And how many years was that? Thirty, maybe forty if he didn't drink
himself to death.
    The thought of forty more years of living as he was made him shudder.
    And yet he hadn't killed himself. True, he hardly treated his body welfare with reverence.
He didn't eat properly, drink properly, sleep properly, or do anything properly. His health
wasn't going to last indefinitely; he was already cheating the percentages, he suspected.
    But using his body carelessly wasn't suicide. He'd never even approached suicide. Why?
    There seemed no answer. He wasn't resigned to anything, he hadn't accepted or adjusted to
the life he'd been forced into. Yet here he was, eight months after the plague's last victim, nine
since he'd spoken to another human being, ten since Virginia had died. Here he was with no
future and a virtually hopeless present. Still plodding on.
    Instinct? Or was he just stupid? Too unimaginative to destroy himself? Why hadn't he done
it in the beginning, when he was in the very depths? What had impelled him to enclose the
house, install a freezer, a generator, an electric stove, a water tank, build a hothouse, a
workbench, burn down the houses on each side of his, collect records and books and mountains
of canned supplies, even--it was fantastic when you thought about it--even put a fancy mural on
the wall?
    Was the life force something more than words, a tangible, mind-controlling potency? Was
nature somehow, in him, maintaining its spark against its own encroachments?
    He closed his eyes. Why think, why reason? There was no answer. His continuance was an
accident and an attendant bovinity. He was just too dumb to end it all, and that was about the
size of it.
    Later he glued up the sliced mural and put it back into place. The slits didn't show too badly
unless he stood very close to the paper.
    He tried briefly to get back to the problem of the bacilli, but he realized that he couldn't
concentrate on anything except the dog. To his complete astonishment, he later found himself
offering up a stumbling prayer that the dog would be protected. It was a mo ment in which he felt
a desperate need to believe in a God that shepherded his own creations. But, even praying, he
felt a twinge of self-reproach, and knew he might start mocking his own prayer at any second.
    Somehow, though, he managed to ignore his iconoclastic self and went on praying anyway.
Because he wanted the dog, because he needed the dog.

                                                  Chapter Thirteen



    IN THE MORNING WHEN he went outside he found that the milk and hamburger were
gone.
    His eyes rushed over the lawn. There were two women crumpled on the grass but the dog
wasn't there. A breath of relief passed his lips. Thank God for that, he thought. Then he
grinned to himself. If I were religious now, he thought, I'd find in this a vindication of my
prayer.
    Immediately afterward he began berating himself for not being awake when the dog had
come. It must have been after dawn, when the streets were safe. The dog must have evolved a
system to have lived so long. But he should have been awake to watch.
    He consoled himself with the hope that he was winning the dog over, if only with food. He
was briefly worried by the idea that the vampires had taken the food, and not the dog. But a
quick check ended that fear. The hamburger had not been lifted over the garlic ring, but dragged
through it along the cement of the porch. And all around the bowl were tiny milk splashes, still
moist, that could have been made only by a dog's lapping tongue.
    Before he had breakfast he put out more milk and more hamburger, placing them in the shade
so the milk wouldn't get too warm. After a moment's deliberation he also put out a bowl of cold
water.
    Then, after eating, he took the two women to the fire and, returning, stopped at a market and
picked up two dozen cans of the best dog food as well as boxes of dog biscuit, dog candy, dog
soap, flea powder, and a wire brush.
    Lord, you'd think I was having a baby or something, he thought as he struggled back to the
car with his arms full. A grin faltered on his lips. Why pretend? he thought. I'm more excited
than I've been in a year. The eagerness he'd felt upon seeing the germ in his microscope was
nothing compared with what he felt about the dog.
    He drove home at eighty miles an hour, and he couldn't help a groan of disappointment when
he saw that the meat and drink were untouched. Well, what the hell do you expect? he asked
himself sarcastically. The dog can't eat every hour on the hour.
    Putting down the dog food and equipment on the kitchen table, he looked at his watch. Ten-
fifteen. The dog would be back when it got hungry again. Patience, he told himself. Get
yourself at least one virtue, anyway.
    He put away the cans and boxes. Then he checked the outside of the house and the hothouse.
There was a loose board to fasten and a pane to repair on the hothouse roof.
    While he collected garlic bulbs, he wondered once again why the vampires had never set fire
to his house. It seemed such an obvious tactic. Was it possible they were afraid of matches? Or
was it that they were just too stupid? After all, their brains could not be so fully operative as
they had been before. The change from life to mobile death must have involved some tissue
deterioration.
    No, that theory wasn't any good, because there were living ones around his house at night too.
Nothing was wrong with their brains, was there?

              He skipped it. He was in no mood for problems. He spent the rest of the morning preparing
and hanging garlic strands. Once he wondered about the fact that garlic bulbs worked. In legend
it was always the blossoms of the garlic plant. He shrugged. What was the difference? The
proof of the garlic was in its chasing ability. He imagined that the blossoms would work too.
    After lunch he sat at the peephole looking out at the bowls and the plate. There was no sound
anywhere except for the almost inaudible humming of the air-conditioning units in the bedroom,
bathroom, and kitchen.
    The dog came at four. Neville had almost fallen into a doze as he sat there before the
peephole. Then his eyes blinked and focused as the dog came hobbling slowly across the street,
looking at the house with white-rimmed, cautious eyes. He wondered what was wrong with the
dog's paw. He wanted very much to fix it and get the dog's affection. Shades of Androcles, he
thought in the gloom of his house.
    He forced himself to sit still and watch. It was incredible, the feeling of warmth and
normality it gave him to see the dog slurping up the milk and eating the hamburger, its jaws
snapping and popping with relish. He sat there with a gentle smile on his face, a smile he wasn't
conscious of. It was such a nice dog.
    His throat swallowed convulsively as the dog finished eating and started away from the porch.
Jumping up from the stool, he moved quickly for the front door.
    Then he held himself back. No, that wasn't the way, he decided reluctantly. You'll just scare
him if you go out. Let him go now, let him go.
    He went back to the peephole and watched the dog wobbling across the street and moving in
between those two houses again. He felt a tightness in his throat as he watched it leave. It's all
right, he soothed himself, he'll be back.
    He turned away from the peephole and made himself a mild drink. Sitting in the chair and
sipping slowly, he wondered where the dog went at night. At first he'd been worried about not
having it in the house with him. But then he'd realized that the dog must be a master at hiding
itself to have lasted so long.
    It was probably, he thought, one of those freak accidents that followed no percentage law.
Somehow, by luck, by coincidence, maybe by a little skill, that one dog had survived the plague
and the grisly victims of the plague.
    That started him thinking. If a dog, with its limited intelligence, could manage to subsist
through it all, wouldn't a person with a reasoning brain have that much more chance for
survival?
    He made himself think about something else. It was dangerous to hope. That was a truism he
had long accepted.
    The next morning the dog came again. This time Robert Neville opened the front door and
went out. The dog immediately bolted away from the dish and bowls, right ear flattened back,
legs scrambling frantically across the street.
    Neville twitched with the repressed instinct to pursue.
    As casually as he could manage, he sat down on the edge of the porch.
    Across the street the dog ran between the houses again and disappeared. After fifteen minutes
of sitting, Neville went in again.
    After a small breakfast he put out more food.
    The dog came at four and Neville went out again, this time making sure that the dog was
finished eating.
    Once more the dog fled. But this time, seeing that it was not pursued, it stopped across the

          street and looked back for a moment.
    "It's all right, boy," Neville called out, but at the sound of his voice the dog ran away again.
    Neville sat on the porch stiffly, teeth gritted with impatience. Goddamn it, what's the matter
with him? he thought. The damn mutt!
    He forced himself to think of what the dog must have gone through. The endless nights of
groveling in the blackness, hidden God knew where, its gaunt chest laboring in the night while
all around its shivering form the vampires walked. The foraging for food and water, the struggle
for life in a world without masters, housed in a body that man had made dependent on himself.
    Poor little fella, he thought, I'll be good to you when you come and live with me.
    Maybe, the thought came then, a dog had more chance of survival than a human. Dogs were
smaller, they could hide in places the vampires couldn't go. They could probably sense the alien
nature of those about them, probably smell it.
    That didn't make him any happier. For always, in spite of reason, he had clung to the hope
that someday he would find someone like himself--a man, a woman, a child, it didn't matter.
Sex was fast losing its meaning without the endless prodding of mass hypnosis. Loneliness he
still felt.
    Sometimes he had indulged in daydreams about finding someone. More often, though, he had
tried to adjust to what he sincerely believed was the inevitable--that he was actually the only one
left in the world. At least in as much of the world as he could ever hope to know.
    Thinking about it, he almost forgot that nightfall was approaching.
    With a start he looked up and saw Ben Cortman running at him from across the street.
    "Neville!"
    He jumped up from the porch and ran into the house, locking and bolting the door behind him
with shaking hands.


   For a certain period he went out on the porch just as the dog had finished eating. Every time
he went out the dog ran away, but as the days passed it ran with decreasing speed, and soon it
was stopping halfway across the street to look back and bark at him. Neville never followed, but
sat down on the porch and watched. It was a game they played.
   Then one day Neville sat on the porch before the dog came. And, when it appeared across the
street, he remained seated.
   For about fifteen minutes the dog hovered near the curb suspiciously, unwilling to approach
the food. Neville edged as far away from the food as he could in order to encourage the dog.
Unthinking, he crossed his legs, and the dog shrank away at the unexpected motion. Neville held
himself quietly then and the dog kept moving around restlessly in the street, its eyes moving
from Neville to the food and back again.
   "Come on, boy," Neville said to it. "Eat your food, that's a good dog."
   Another ten minutes passed. The dog was now on the lawn, moving in concentric arcs that
became shorter and shorter.
   The dog stopped. Then slowly, very slowly, one paw at a time, it began moving up on the
dish and bowls, its eyes never leaving Neville for a second.
   "That's the boy," Neville said quietly.
   This time the dog didn't flinch or back away at the sound of his voice. Still Neville made sure
he sat motionless so that no abrupt movement would startle the dog.
   The dog moved yet closer, stalking the plate, its body tense and waiting for the least motion

          from Neville.
    "That's right," Neville told the dog.
    Suddenly the dog darted in and grabbed the meat. Neville's pleased laughter followed its
frantically erratic wobble across the street.
    "You little son of a gun," he said appreciatively.
    Then he sat and watched the dog as it ate. It crouched down on a yellow lawn across the
street, its eyes on Neville while it wolfed down the hamburger. Enjoy it, he thought, watching
the dog. From now on you get dog food. I can't afford to let you have any more fresh meat.
    When the dog had finished it straightened up and came across the street again, a little less
hesitantly. Neville still sat there, feeling his heart thud nervously. The dog was beginning to
trust him, and somehow it made him tremble. He sat there, his eyes fastened on the dog.
    "That's right, boy," he heard himself saying aloud. "Get your water now, that's a good dog."
    A sudden smile of delight raised his lips as he saw the dog's good ear stand up. He's
listening! he thought excitedly. He hears what I say, the little son of a gun!
    "Come on, boy." He went on talking eagerly. "Get your water and your milk now, that's a
good boy. I won't hurt you. Atta boy."
    The dog went to the water and drank gingerly, its head lifting with sudden jerks to watch him,
then dipping down again.
    "I'm not doing anything," Neville told the dog.
    He couldn't get over how odd his voice sounded. When a man didn't hear the sound of his
own voice for almost a year, it sounded very strange to him. A year was a long time to live in
silence. When you come live with me, he thought, I'll talk your ear off. The dog finished the
water.
    "Come `ere, boy." Neville said invitingly, patting his leg. "Come on."
    The dog looked at him curiously, its good ear twitching again. Those eyes, Neville thought.
What a world of feeling in those eyes! Distrust, fear, hope, loneliness--all etched in those big
brown eyes. Poor little guy.
    "Come on, boy, I won't hurt you," he said gently.
    Then he stood up and the dog ran away. Neville stood there looking at the fleeing dog
shaking his head slowly.
    More days passed. Each day Neville sat on the porch while the dog ate, and before long the
dog approached the dish and bowls without hesitation, almost boldly, with the assurance of the
dog that knows its human conquest.
    And all the time Neville would talk to it.
    "That's a good boy. Eat up the food. That's good food, isn't it? Sure it is. I'm your friend. I
gave you that food. Eat it up, boy, that's right. That's a good dog," endlessly cajoling, praising,
pouring soft words into the dog's frightened mind as it ate.
    And every day he sat a little bit closer to it, until the day came when he could have reached
out and touched the dog if he'd stretched a little. He didn't, though. I'm not taking any chances,
he told himself. I don't want to scare him.
    But it was hard to keep his hands still. He could almost feel them twitching empathically with
his strong desire to reach out and stroke the dog's head. He had such a terrible yearning to love
something again, and the dog was such a beautifully ugly dog.
    He kept talking to the dog until it became quite used to the sound of his voice. It hardly
looked up now when he spoke. It came and went without trepidation, eating and barking its curt
acknowledgment from across the street. Soon now, Neville told himself, I'll be able to pat his

          head. The days passed into pleasant weeks, each hour bringing him closer to a companion.
   Then one day the dog didn't come.
   Neville was frantic. He'd got so used to the dog's coming and going that it had become the
fulcrum of his daily schedule, everything fitting around the dog's mealtimes, investigation
forgotten, everything pushed aside but his desire to have the dog in his house.
   He spent a nerve-racked afternoon searching the neighborhood, calling out in a loud voice for
the dog. But no amount of searching helped, and he went home to a tasteless dinner. The dog
didn't come for dinner that night or for breakfast the next morning. Again Neville searched, but
with less hope. They've got him, he kept hearing the words in his mind, the dirty bastards have
got him. But he couldn't really believe it. He wouldn't let himself believe it.
   On the afternoon of the third day he was in the garage when he heard the sound of the metal
bowl clinking outside. With a gasp he ran out into the daylight.
   "You're back!" he cried.
   The dog jerked away from the plate nervously, water dripping from its jaws.
   Neville's heart leaped. The dog's eyes were glazed and it was panting for breath, its dark
tongue hanging out.
   "No," he said, his voice breaking. "Oh, no."
   The dog still backed across the lawn on trembling stalks of legs. Quickly Neville sat down on
the porch steps and stayed there trembling. Oh, no, he thought in anguish, oh, God, no.
   He sat there watching it tremble fitfully as it lapped up the water. No. No. It's not true.
   "Not true," he murmured without realizing it.
   Then, instinctively, he reached out his hand. The dog drew back a little, teeth bared in a
throaty snarl.
   "It's all right, boy," Neville said quietly. "I won't hurt you." He didn't even know what he
was saying.
   He couldn't stop the dog from leaving. He tried to follow it, but it was gone before he could
discover where it hid. He'd decided it must be under a house somewhere, but that didn't do him
any good.
   He couldn't sleep that night. He paced restlessly, drinking pots of coffee and cursing the
sluggishness of time. He had to get hold of the dog, he had to. And soon. He had to cure it.
   But how? His throat moved. There had to be a way. Even with the little he knew there must
be a way.
   The next morning he sat tight beside the bowl and he felt his lips shaking as the dog came
limping slowly across the street. It didn't eat anything. Its eyes were more dull and listless than
they'd been the day before. Neville wanted to jump at it and try to grab hold of it, take it in the
house, nurse it.
   But he knew that if he jumped and missed he might undo everything. The dog might never
return.
   All through the meal his hand kept twitching out to pat the dog's head. But every time it did,
the dog cringed away with a snarl. He tried being forceful. "Stop that!" he said in a firm, angry
tone, but that only frightened the dog more and it drew away farther from him. Neville had to
talk to it for fifteen minutes, his voice a hoarse, trembling sound, before the dog would return to
the water.
   This time he managed to follow the slow- moving dog and saw which house it squirmed
under. There was a little metal screen he could have put up over the opening, but he didn't. He
didn't want to frighten the dog. And besides, there would be no way of getting the dog then

          except through the floor, and that would take too long. He had to get the dog fast.
    When the dog didn't return that afternoon, he took a dish of milk and put it under the house
where the dog was. The next morning the bowl was empty. He was going to put more milk in it
when he realized that the dog might never leave his lair then. He put the bowl back in front of
his house and prayed that the dog was strong enough to reach it. He was too warned even to
criticize his inept prayer.
    When the dog didn't come that afternoon he went back and looked in. He paced back and
forth outside the opening and almost put milk there anyway. No, the dog would never leave
then.
    He went home and spent a sleepless night. The dog didn't come in the morning. Again he
went to the house. He listened at the opening but couldn't hear any sound of breathing. Either it
was too far back for him to hear or...
    He went back to the house and sat on the porch. He didn't have breakfast or lunch. He just
sat there.
    That afternoon, late, the dog came limping out between the houses, moving slowly on its bony
legs. Neville forced himself to sit there without moving until the dog had reached the food.
Then, quickly, he reached down and picked up the dog.
    Immediately it tried to snap at him, but he caught its jaws in his tight hand and held them
together. its lean, almost hairless body squirmed feebly in his grasp and pitifully terrified whines
pulsed in its throat.
    "It's all tight," he kept saying. "It's all right, boy."
    Quickly he took it into his room and put it down on the little bed of blankets he'd arranged for
the dog. As soon as he took his hand off its jaws the dog snapped at him and he jerked his hand
back. The dog lunged over the linoleum with a violent scrabbling of paws, heading for the door.
Neville jumped up and blocked its way. The dog's legs slipped on the smooth surface, then it
got a little traction and disappeared under the bed.
    Neville got on his knees and looked under the bed. In the gloom there he saw the two
glowing coals of eyes and heard the fitful panting.
    "Come on, boy," he pleaded unhappily. "I won't hurt you. You're sick. You need help."
    The dog wouldn't budge. With a groan Neville got up finally and went out, closing the door
behind him. He went and got the bowls and filled them with milk and water. He put them in the
bedroom near the dog's bed.
    He stood by his own bed a moment, listening to the panting dog, his face lined with pain.
    "Oh," he muttered plaintively, "why don't you trust me?"


   He was eating dinner when he heard the horrible crying and whining.
   Heart pounding, he jumped up from the table and raced across the living room. He threw
open the bedroom door and flicked on the light.
   Over in the corner by the benc h the dog was trying to dig a hole in the floor.
   Terrified whines shook its body as its front paws clawed frenziedly at the linoleum, slipping
futilely on the smoothness of it.
   "Boy, it's all right!" Neville said quickly.
   The dog jerked around and backed into the corner, hackles rising, jaws drawn back all the
way from its yellowish-white teeth, a half- mad sound quivering in its throat.
   Suddenly Neville knew what was wrong. It was nighttime and the terrified dog was trying to

          dig itself a hole to bury itself in.
   He stood there helplessly, his brain refusing to work properly as the dog edged away from the
corner, then scuttled underneath the workbench.
   An idea finally came. Neville moved to his bed quickly and pulled off the top blanket.
Returning to the bench, he crouched down and looked under it.
   The dog was almost flattened against the wall, its body shaking violently, guttural snarls
bubbling in its throat.
   "All right, boy," he said. "All right."
   The dog shrank back as Neville stuck the blanket underneath the bench and then stood up.
Neville went over to the door and remained there a minute looking back. If only I could do
something, he thought helplessly. But I can't even get close to him.
   Well, he decided grimly, if the dog didn't accept him soon, he'd have to try a little
chloroform. Then he could at least work on the dog, fix its paw and try somehow to cure it.
   He went back to the kitchen but he couldn't eat. Finally he dumped the contents of his plate
into the garbage disposal and poured the coffee back into the pot. In the living room he made
himself a drink and downed it. It tasted flat and unappetizing. He put down the glass and. went
back to the bedroom with a somber face.
   The dog had dug itself under the folds of the blanket and there it was still shaking, whining
ceaselessly. No use trying to work on it now, he thought; it's too frightened.
   He walked back to the bed and sat down. He ran his hands through his hair and then put them
over his face. Cure it, cure it, he thought, and one of his hands bunched into a fist to strike
feebly at the mattress.
   Reaching out abruptly, he turned off the light and lay down fully clothed. Still lying down, he
worked off his sandals and listened to them thump on the floor.
   Silence. He lay there staring at the ceiling. Why don't I get up? he wondered. Why don't I
try to do something?
   He turned on his side. Get some sleep. The words came automatically. He knew he wasn't
going to sleep, though. He lay in the darkness listening to the dog's whimpering.
   Die, it's going to die, he kept thinking, there's nothing in the world I can do.
   At last, unable to bear the sound, he reached over and switched on the bedside lamp. As he
moved across the room in his stocking feet, he heard the dog trying suddenly to jerk loose from
the blanketing. But it got all tangled up in the folds and began yelping, terror-stricken, while its
body flailed wildly under the wool.
   Neville knelt beside it and put his hands on its body. He heard the choking snarl and the
muffled click of its teeth as it snapped at him through the blanket.
   "All right," he said. "Stop it now."
   The dog kept struggling against him, its high-pitched whining never stopping, its gaunt body
shaking without control. Neville kept his hands firmly on its body, pinning it down, talking to it
quietly, gently.
   "It's all right now, fella, all right. Nobody's going to hurt you. Take it easy, now. Come on,
relax, now. Come on, boy. Take it easy. Relax. That's right, relax. That's it. Calm down.
Nobody's going to hurt you. We'll take care of you."
   He went on talking intermittently for almost an hour, his voice a low, hypnotic murmuring in
the silence of the room. And slowly, hesitantly, the dog's trembling eased off. A smile faltered
on Neville's lips as he went on talking, talking.
   "That's right. Take it easy, now. We'll take care of you."

             Soon the dog lay still beneath his strong hands, the only movement its harsh breathing.
Neville began patting its head, began running his right hand over its body, stroking and soothing.
   "That's a good dog," he said softly. "Good dog. I'll take care of you now. Nobody will hurt
you. You understand, don't you, fella? Sure you do. Sure. You're my dog, aren't you?"
   Carefully he sat down on the cool linoleum, still patting the dog.
   "You're a good dog, a good dog."
   His voice was calm, it was quiet with resignation.
   After about an hour he picked up the dog. For a moment it struggled and started whining, but
Neville talked to it again and it soon calmed down.
   He sat down on his bed and held the blanket-covered dog in his lap. He sat there for hours
holding the dog, patting and stroking and talking. The dog lay immobile in his lap, breathing
easier.
   It was about eleven that night when Neville slowly undid the blanket folds and exposed the
dog's head.
   For a few minutes it cringed away from his hand, snapping a little. But he kept talking to it
quietly, and after a while his hand rested on the warm neck and he was moving his fingers
gently, scratching and caressing.
   He smiled down at the dog, his throat moving.
   "You'll be all better soon," he whispered. "Real soon." The dog looked up at him with its
dulled, sick eyes and then its tongue faltered out and licked roughly and moistly across the palm
of Neville's hand.
   Something broke in Neville's throat. He sat there silently while tears ran slowly down his
cheeks.
   In a week the dog was dead.

                                                   Chapter Fourteen



   THERE WAS NO DEBAUCH of drinking. Far from it. He found that he actually drank less.
Something had changed. Trying to analyze it, he came to the conclusion that his last drunk had
put him on the bottom, at the very nadir of frustrated despair. Now, unless he put himself under
the ground, the only way he could go was up.
   After the first few weeks of building up intense hope about the dog, it had slowly dawned on
him that intense hope was not the answer and never had been. In a world of monotonous horror
there could be no salvation in wild dreaming. Horror he had adjusted to. But monotony was the
greater obstacle, and he realized it now, understood it at long last. And understanding it seemed
to give him a sort of quiet peace, a sense of having spread all the cards on his mental table,
examined them, and settled conclusively on the desired hand.
   Burying the dog had not been the agony he had supposed it would be. In a way, it was almost
like burying threadbare hopes and false excitements. From that day on he learned to accept the
dungeon he existed in, neither seeking to escape with sudden derring-do nor beating his pate
bloody on its walls.
   And, thus resigned, he returned to work.


   It had happened almost a year before, several days after he had put Virginia to her second and
final rest.
   Hollow and bleak, a sense of absolute loss in him, he was walking the streets late one
afternoon, hands listless at his sides, feet shuffling with the rhythm of despair. His face mirrored
nothing of the helpless agony he felt. His face was a blank.
   He had wandered through the streets for hours, neither knowing nor caring where he was
going. All he knew was that he couldn't return to the empty rooms of the house, couldn't look at
the things they had touched and held and known with him. He couldn't look at Kathy's empty
bed, at her clothes hanging still and useless in the closet, couldn't look at the bed that he and
Virginia had slept in, at Virginia's clothes, her jewelry, all her perfumes on the bureau. He
couldn't go near the house.
   And so he walked and wandered, and he didn't know where he was when the people started
milling past him, when the man caught his arm and breathed garlic in his face.
   "Come, brother, come," the man said, his voice a grating rasp. He saw the man's throat
moving like clammy turkey skin, the red-splotched cheeks, the feverish eyes, the black suit,
unpressed, unclean. "Come and be saved, brother, saved."
   Robert Neville stared at the man. He didn't understand. The man pulled him on, his fingers
like skeleton fingers on Neville's arm.
   "It's never too late, brother," said the man. "Salvation comes to him who . . ."
   The last of his words were lost now in the rising murmur of sound from the great tent they
were approaching. It sounded like the sea imprisoned under canvas, roaring to escape. Robert
Neville tried to loose his arm.

             "I don't want to--"
   The man didn't hear. He pulled Neville on with him and they walked toward the waterfall of
crying and stamping. The man did not let go. Robert Neville felt as if he were being dragged
into a tidal wave.
   "But I don't--"
   The tent had swallowed him then, the ocean of shouting, stamping, hand-clapping sound
engulfed him. He flinched instinctively and felt his heart begin pumping heavily. He was
surrounded now by people, hundreds of them, swelling and gushing around him like waters
closing in. And yelling and clapping and crying out words Robert Neville couldn't understand.
   Then the cries died down and he heard the voice that stabbed through the half- light like
knifing doom, that crackled and bit shrilly over the loud-speaker system.
   "Do you want to fear the holy cross of God? Do you want to look into the mirror and not see
the face that Almighty God has given you? Do you want to come crawling back from the grave
like a monster out of hell?" The voice enjoined hoarsely, pulsing, driving.
   "Do you want to be changed into a black unholy animal? Do you want to stain the evening
sky with hell-born bat wings? I ask you--do you want to be turned into godless, night-cursed
husks, into creatures of eternal damnation?"
   "No!" the people erupted, terror-stricken. "No, save us!"
   Robert Neville backed away, bumping into flailing- handed, white-jawed true believers
screaming out for succor from the lowering skies.
   "Well, I'm telling you! I'm telling you, so listen to the word of God! Behold, evil shall go
forth from na tion to nation and the slain of the Lord shall be at that day from one end of the earth
even unto the other end of the earth! Is that a lie, is that a lie?"
   "No! No!"
   "I tell you that unless we become as little children, stainless and pure in the eyes of Our
Lord--unless we stand up and shout out the glory of Almighty God and of His only begotten
son, Jesus Christ, our Savior--unless we fall on our knees and beg forgiveness for our grievous
offenses--we are damned! I'll say it again, so listen! We are damned, we are damned, we are
damned!
   "Amen!"
   "Save us!"
   The people twisted and moaned and smote their brows and shrieked in mortal terror and
screamed out terrible hallelujahs.
   Robert Neville was shoved about, stumbling and lost in a treadmill of hopes, in a crossfire of
frenzied worship.
   "God has punished us for our great transgressions! God has unleashed the terrible force of
His almighty wrath! God has set loose the second deluge upon us--a deluge, a flood, a world-
consuming torrent of creatures from hell! He has opened the grave, He has unsealed the crypt,
He has turned the dead from their black tombs--and set them upon us! And death and hell
delivered up the dead which were in them! That's the word of God! 0 God, You have punished
us, 0 God, You have seen the terrible face of our transgressions, 0 God, You have struck us with
the might of Your almighty wrath!"
   Clapping hands like the spatter of irregular rifle fire, swaying bodies like stalks in a terrible
wind, moans of the great potential dead, screams of the fighting living. Robert Neville strained
through their violent ranks, face white, hands before him like those of a blind man seeking
shelter.

             He escaped, weak and trembling, stumbling away from them. Inside the tent the people
screamed. But night had already fallen.


    He thought about that now as he sat in the living room nursing a mild drink, a psychology text
resting on his lap.
    A quotation had started the train of thought, sending him back to that evening ten months
before, when he'd been pulled into the wild revival meeting.
    "This condition, known as hysterical blindness, may be partial or complete, including one,
several, or all objects."
    That was the quotation he'd read. It had started him working on the problem again.
    A new approach now. Before, he had stubbornly persisted in attributing all vampire
phenomena to the germ. If certain of these phenomena did not fit in with the bacilli, he felt
inclined to judge their cause as superstition. True, he'd vaguely considered psychological
explanations, but he'd never really given much credence to such a possibility. Now, released at
last from unyielding preconceptions, he did.
    There was no reason, he knew, why some of the phenomena could not be physically caused,
the rest psychological. And, now that he accepted it, it seemed one of those patent answers that
only a blind man would miss. Well, I always was the blind-man type, he thought in quiet
amusement.
    Consider, he thought then, the shock undergone by a victim of the plague.
    Toward the end of the plague, yellow journalism had spread a cancerous dread of vampires to
all corners of the nation. He could remember himself the rash of pseudoscientific articles that
veiled an out-and-out fright campaign designed to sell papers.
    There was something grotesquely amusing in that; the frenetic attempt to sell papers while the
world died. Not that all newspapers had done that. Those papers that had lived in honesty and
integrity died the same way.
    Yellow journalism, though, had been rampant in the final days. And, in addition, a great
upsurge in revivalism had occurred. In a typical desperation for quick answers, easily
understood, people had turned to primitive worship as the solution. With less than success. Not
only had they died as quickly as the rest of the people, but they had died with terror in their
hearts, with a mortal dread flowing in their very veins.
    And then, Robert Neville thought, to have this hideous dread vindicated. To regain
consciousness beneath hot, heavy soil and know that death had not brought rest. To find
themselves clawing up through the earth, their bodies driven now by a strange, hideous need.
    Such traumatic shocks could undo what mind was left. And such shocks could explain much.
    The cross, first of all.
    Once they were forced to accept vindication of the dread of being repelled by an object that
had been a focal point of worship, their minds could have snapped. Dread of the cross sprang
up. And, driven on despite already created dreads, the vampire could have acquired an intense
mental loathing, and this self- hatred could have set up a block in their weakened minds causing
them be blind to their own abhorred image. It could make them lonely, soul- lost slaves of the
night, afraid to approach anyone, living a solitary existence, often seeking solace in the soil of
their native land, struggling to gain a sense of communion with something, with anything.
    The water? That he did accept as superstition, a carryover of the traditional legend that
witches were incapable of crossing running water, as written down in the story of Tam

          O'Shanter. Witches, vampires--in all these feared beings there was a sort of interwoven
kinship. Legends and superstitions could overlap, and did.
   And the living vampires? That was simple too, now.
   In life there were the deranged, the insane. What better hold than vampirism for these to
catch on to? He was certain that all the living who came to his house at night were insane,
thinking themselves true vampires although actually they were only demented sufferers. And
that would explain the fact that they'd never taken the obvious step of burning his house. They
simply could not think that logically.
   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 he rmit 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 rega ined 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 better 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."
   "For how long?"
   "Last week."
   "And what did you do after he died?"
   "Ran." She bit into her lower lip. "I ran away."
   "You mean you've been wandering all this time?"
   "Y-yes."
   He looked at her without a word. Then abruptly he turned and his boots thumped loudly as he
walked into the kitchen. Pulling open a cabinet door, he drew down a handful of garlic cloves.
He put them on a dish, tore them into pieces, and mashed them to a pulp. The acrid fumes
assailed his nostrils.
   She was propped up on one elbow when he came back. Without hesitation he pushed the dish
almost to her face.
   She turned her head away with a faint cry.
   "What are you doing?" she asked, and coughed once.
   "Why do you turn away?"
   "Please--"
   "Why do you turn away?"
   "It smells!" Her voice broke into a sob. "Don't! You're making me sick!"
   He pushed the plate still closer to her face. With a gagging sound she backed away and
pressed against the wall, her legs drawn up on the bed.
   "Stop it! Please!" she begged.
   He drew back the dish and watched her body twitching as her stomach convulsed.

             "You're one of them," he said to her, quietly venomous.
   She sat up suddenly and ran past him into the bathroom. The door slammed behind her and
he could hear the sound of her terrible retching.
   Thin- lipped, he put the dish down on the bedside table. His throat moved as he swallowed.
   Infected. It had been a clear sign. He had learned over a year before that garlic was an
allergen to any system infected with the vampiris bacillus. When the system was exposed to
garlic, the stimulated tissues sensitized the cells, causing an abnormal reaction to any further
contact with garlic. That was why putting it into their veins had accomplished little. They had to
be exposed to the odor.
   He sank down on the bed. And the woman had reacted in the wrong way.
   After a moment Robert Neville frowned. If what she had said was true, she'd been wandering
around for a week. She would naturally be exhausted and weak, and under those conditions the
smell of so much garlic could have made her retch.
   His fists thudded down onto the mattress. He still didn't know, then, not for certain. And,
objectively, he knew he had no right to decide on inadequate evidence. It was something he'd
learned the hard way, something he knew and believed absolutely.
   He was still sitting there when she unlocked the bathroom door and came out. She stood in
the hall a moment looking at him, then went into the living room. He rose and followed. When
he came into the living room she was sitting on the couch.
   "Are you satisfied?" she asked.
   "Never mind that," he said. "You're on trial, not me."
   She looked up angrily as if she meant to say something. Then her body slumped and she
shook her head. He felt a twinge of sympathy for a moment. She looked so helpless, her thin
hands resting on her lap. She didn't seem to care any more about her torn dress. He looked at
the slight swelling of her breast. Her figure was very slim, almost curveless. Not at all like the
woman he'd used to envision. Never mind that, he told himself, that doesn't matter any more.
   He sat down in the chair and looked across at her. She didn't return his gaze.
   "Listen to me," he said then. "I have every reason to suspect you of being infected.
Especially now that you've reacted in such a way to garlic."
   She said nothing.
   "Haven't you anything to say?" he asked.
   She raised her eyes.
   "You think I'm one of them," she said.
   "I think you might be."
   "And what about this?" she asked, holding up her cross.
   "That means nothing," he said.
   "I'm awake," she said. "I'm not in a coma."
   He said nothing. It was something he couldn't argue with, even though it didn't assuage
doubt.
   "I've been in Inglewood many times," he said finally, "Why didn't you hear my car?"
   "Inglewood is a big place," she said.
   He looked at her carefully, his fingers tapping on the arm of the chair.
   "I'd--like to believe you," he said.
   "Would you?" she asked. Another stomach contraction hit her and she bent over with a gasp,
teeth clenched. Robert Neville sat there wondering why he didn't feel more compassion for her.
Emotion was a difficult thing to summon from the dead, though. He had spent it all and felt

          hollow now, without feeling.
   After a moment she looked up. Her eyes were hard.
   "I've had a weak stomach all my life," she said. "I saw my husband killed last week. Torn to
pieces. Right in front of my eyes I saw it. I lost two children to the plague. And for the past
week I've been wandering all over. Hiding at night, not eating more than a few scraps of food.
Sick with fear, unable to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time. Then I hear someone shout
at me. You chase me over a field, hit me, drag me to your house. Then when I get sick because
you shove a plate of reeking garlic in my face, you tell me I'm infected!"
   Her hands twitched in her lap. "What do you expect to happen?" she said angrily.
   She slumped back against the couch back and closed her eyes. Her hands picked nervously at
her skirt. For a moment she tried to tuck in the torn piece, but it fell down again and she sobbed
angrily.
   He leaned forward in the chair. He was beginning to feel guilty now, in spite of suspicions
and doubts. He couldn't help it. He had forgotten about sobbing women. He raised a hand
slowly to his beard and plucked confusedly as he watched her.
   "Would . . ." he started. He swallowed. "Would you let me take a sample of your blood?" he
asked. "I could--"
   She stood up suddenly and stumbled toward the door.
   He got up quickly.
   "What are you doing?" he asked.
   She didn't answer. Her hands fumbled, awkwardly with the lock.
   "You can't go out there," he said, surprised. "The street will be full of them in a little while."
   "I'm not staying here," she sobbed. "What's the difference if they kill me?"
   His hands closed over her arm. She tried to pull away. "Leave me alone!" she cried. "I
didn't ask to come here. You dragged me here. Why don't you leave me alone?"
   He stood by her awkwardly, not knowing what to say.
   "You can't go out," he said again.
   He led her back to the couch. Then he went and got her a small tumbler of whisky at the bar.
Never mind whether she's infected or not, he thought, never mind.
   He handed her the tumbler. She shook her head.
   "Drink it," he said. "It'll calm you down."
   She looked up angrily. "So you can shove more garlic in my face?"
   He shook his head.
   "Drink it now," he said.
   After a few moments she took the glass and took a sip of the whisky. It made her cough. She
put the tumbler on the arm of the couch and a deep breath shook her body.
   "Why do you want me to stay?" she asked unhappily.
   He looked at her without a definite answer in his mind. Then he said, "Even if you are
infected, I can't let you go out there. You don't know what they'd do to you."
   Her eyes closed. "I don't care," she said.

                                                  Chapter Seventeen



   "I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT," he told her over supper. "Almost three years now, and still
there are some of them alive. Food supplies are `being used up. As far as I know, they still lie in
a coma during the day." He shook his head. "But they're not dead. Three years and they're not
dead. What keeps them going?"
   She was wearing his bathrobe. About five she had relented, taken a bath, and changed. Her
slender body was shapeless in the voluminous terry-cloth folds. She'd borrowed his comb and
drawn her hair back into a pony tail fastened with a piece of twine.
   Ruth fingered her coffee cup.
   "We used to see them sometimes," she said. "We were afraid to go near them, though. We
didn't think we should touch them."
   "Didn't you know they'd come back after they died?"
   She shook her head. "No."
   "Didn't you wonder about the people who attacked your house at night?"
   "It never entered our minds that they were--" She shook he r head slowly. "It's hard to
believe something like that."
   "I suppose," he said.
   He glanced at her as they sat eating silently. It was hard too to believe that here was a normal
woman. Hard to believe that, after all these years, a companion had come. It was more than just
doubting her. It was doubting that anything so remarkable could happen in such a lost world.
   "Tell me more about them," Ruth said.
   He got up and took the coffeepot off the stove. He poured more into her cup, into his, then
replaced the pot and sat down.
   "How do you feel now?" he asked her.
   "I feel better, thank you."
   He nodded and spooned sugar into his coffee. He felt her eyes on him as he stirred. What's
she thinking? he wondered. He took a deep breath, wondering why the tightness in him didn't
break. For a while he'd thought that he trusted her. Now he wasn't sure.
   "You still don't trust me," she said, seeming to read his mind.
   He looked up quickly, then shrugged.
   "It's--not that," he said.
   "Of course it is," she said quietly. She sighed. "Oh, very well. If you have to check my
blood, check it."
   He looked at her suspiciously, his mind questioning: Is it a trick? He hid the movement of his
throat in swallowing coffee. It was stupid, he thought, to be so suspicious.
   He put down the cup.
   "Good," he said. "Very good."
   He looked at her as she stared into the coffee.
   "If you are infected," he told her, "I'll do everything I can to cure you."
   Her eyes met his. "And if you can't?" she said.

              Silence a moment.
    "Let's wait and see," he said then.
    They both drank coffee. Then he asked, "Shall we do it now?"
    "Please," she said, "in the morning. I--still feel a little ill."
    "All right," he said, nodding. "In the morning."
    They finished their meal in silence. Neville felt only a small satisfaction that she was going to
let him check her blood. He was afraid he might discover that she was infected. In the
meantime he had to pass an evening and a night with her, perhaps get to know her and be
attracted to her. When in the morning he might have to--
    Later, in the living room, they sat looking at the mural, sipping port, and listening to
Schubert's Fourth Symphony.
    "I wouldn't have believed it," she said, seeming to cheer up. "I never thought I'd be listening
to music again. Drinking wine."
    She looked around the room.
    "You've certainly done a wonderful job," she said.
    "What about your house?' he asked.
    "It was nothing like this," she said. "We didn't have a--"
    "How did you protect your house?" he interrupted.
    "Oh.--" She thought a moment. "We had it boarded up, of course. And we used crosses."
    "They don't always work," he said quietly, after a moment of looking at her.
    She looked blank. "They don't?"
    "Why should a Jew fear the cross?" he said. "Why should a vampire who had been a Jew fear
it? Most people were afraid of becoming vampires. Most of them suffer from hysterical
blindness before mirrors. But as far as the cross goes--well, neither a Jew nor a Hindu nor a
Mohammedan nor an atheist, for that matter, would fear the cross."
    She sat holding her wineglass and looking at him with expressionless eyes.
    "That's why the cross doesn't always work," he said.
    "You didn't let me finish," she said. "We used garlic too."
    "I thought it made you sick."
    "I was already sick. I used to weigh a hundred and twenty. I weigh ninety-eight pounds
now."
    He nodded. But as he went into the kitchen to get another bottle of wine, he thought, she
would have adjusted to it by now. After three years.
    Then again, she might not have. What was the point in doubting her now? She was going to
let him check her blood. What else could she do? It's me, he thought. I've been by myself too
long. I won't believe anything unless I see it in a microscope. Heredity triumphs again. I'm my
father's son, damn his moldering bones.
    Standing in the dark kitchen, digging his blunt nail under the wrapping around the neck of the
bottle, Robert Neville looked into the living room at Ruth.
    His eyes ran over the robe, resting a moment on the slight prominence of her breasts,
dropping then to the bronzed calves and ankles, up to the smooth kneecaps. She had a body like
a young girl's. She certainly didn't look like the mother of two.
    The most unusual feature of the entire affair, he thought, was that he felt no physical desire
for her.
    If she had come two years before, maybe even later, he might have violated her. There had
been some terrible moments in those days, moments when the most terrible of solutions to his

          need were considered, were often dwelt upon until they drove him half mad.
   But then the experiments had begun. Smoking had tapered off, drinking lost its compulsive
nature. Deliberately and with surprising success, he had submerged himself in investigation.
   His sex drive had diminished, had virtually disappeared. Salvation of the monk, he thought.
The drive had to go sooner or later, or no normal man could dedicate himself to any life that
excluded sex.
   Now, happily, he felt almost nothing; perhaps a hardly discernible stirring far beneath the
rocky strata of abstinence. He was content to leave it at that. Especially since there was no
certainty that Ruth was the companion he had waited for. Or even the certainty that he could
allow her to live beyond tomorrow. Cure her?
   Curing was unlikely.
   He went back into the living room with the opened bottle. She smiled at him briefly as he
poured more wine for her.
   "I've been admiring your mural," she said. "It almost makes you believe you're in the
woods."
   He grunted.
   "It must have taken a lot of work to get your house like this," she said.
   "You should know," he said. "You went through the same thing."
   "We had nothing like this," she said. "Our house was small. Our food locker was half the
size of yours."
   "You must have run out of food," he said, looking at her carefully.
   "Frozen food," she said. "We were living out of cans." He nodded. Logical, his mind had to
admit. But he still didn't like it. It was all intuition, he knew, but he didn't like it.
   "What about water?" he asked then.
   She looked at him silently for a moment. "You don't believe a word I've said, do you?" she
said.
   "It's not that," he said. "I'm just curious how you lived."
   "You can't hide it from your voice," she said. "You've been alone too long. You've lost the
talent for deceit."
   He grunted, getting the uncomfortable feeling that she was playing with him. That's
ridiculous, he argued. She's just a woman. She was probably right. He probably was a gruff
and graceless hermit. What did it matter?
   "Tell me about your husband," he said abruptly.
   Something flitted over her face, a shade of memory. She lifted the glass of dark wine to her
lips.
   "Not now," she said. "Please."
   He slumped back on the couch, unable to analyze the formless dissatisfaction he felt.
Everything she said and did could be a result of what she'd been through. It could also be a lie.
   Why should she lie? he asked himself. In the morning he would check her blood. What could
lying tonight profit her when, in a matter of hours, he'd know the truth?
   "You know," he said, trying to ease the moment, "I've been thinking. If three people could
survive the plague, why not more?"
   "Do you think that's possible?" she asked.
   "Why not? There must have been others who were immune for one reason or another."
   "Tell me more about the germ," she said.
   He hesitated a moment, then put down his wineglass. What if he told her everything? What

          if she escaped and came back after death with all the knowledge that he had?
    "There's an awful lot of detail," he said.
    "You were saying something about the cross before," she said. "How do you know it's true?"
    "You remember what I said about Ben Cortman?" he said, glad to restate something she
already knew rather than go into fresh material.
    "You mean that man you--"
    He nodded. "Yes. Come here," he said, standing. "I'll show him to you."
    As he stood behind her looking out the peephole, he smelled the odor of her hair and skin. It
made him draw back a little. Isn't that remarkable? he thought. I don't like the smell. Like
Gulliver returning from the logical horses, I find the human smell offensive.
    "He's the one by the lamppost," he said.
    She made a slight sound of acknowledgment. Then she said, "There are so few. Where are
they?"
    "I've killed off most of them," he said, "but they manage to keep a few ahead of me."
    "How come the lamp is on out there?" she said. "I thought they destroyed the electrical
system."
    "I connected it with my generator," he said, "so I could watch them."
    "Don't they break the bulb?"
    "I have a very strong globe over the bulb."
    "Don't they climb up and try to break it?"
    "I have garlic all over the post."
    She shook her head. "You've thought of everything."
    Stepping back, he looked at her a moment. How can she look at them so calmly, he
wondered, ask me questions, make comments, when only a week ago she saw their kind tear her
husband to pieces? Doubts again, he thought. Won't they ever stop?
    He knew they wouldn't until he knew about her for sure.
    She turned away from the window then.
    "Will you excuse me a moment?" she said.
    He watched her walk into the bathroom and heard her lock the door behind her. Then he went
back to the couch after closing the peephole door. A wry smile played on his lips. He looked
down into the tawny wine depths and tugged abstractedly at his beard.
    `Will you excuse me a moment?'
    For some reason the words seemed grotesquely amusing, the carry-over from a lost age.
Emily Post mincing through the graveyard. Etiquette for Young Vampires.
    The smile was gone.
    And what now? What did the future hold for him? In a week would she still be here with
him, or crumpled in the never cooling fire?
    He knew that, if she were infected, he'd have to try to cure her whether it worked or not. But
what if she were free of the bacillus? In a way, that was a more nerve-racking possibility. The
other way he would merely go on as before, breaking neither schedule nor standards. But if she
stayed, if they had to establish a relationship, perhaps become husband and wife, have children--
    Yes, that was more terrifying.
    He suddenly realized that he had become an ill-tempered and inveterate bachelor again. He
no longer thought about his wife, his child, his past life. The present was enough. And he was
afraid of the possible demand that he make sacrifices and accept responsibility again. He was
afraid of giving out his heart, of removing the chains he had forged around it to keep emotion

          prisoner. He was afraid of loving again.
   When she came out of the bathroom he was still sitting there, thinking. The record player,
unnoticed by him, let out only a thin scratching sound.
   Ruth lifted the record from the turntable and turned it. The third movement of the symphony
began.
   "Well, what about Cortman?" she asked, sitting down.
   He looked at her blankly. "Cortman?"
   "You were going to tell me something about him and the cross."
   "Oh. Well, one night I got him in here and showed him the cross."
   "What happened?"
   Shall I kill her now? Shall I not even investigate, but kill her and burn her?
   His throat moved. Such thoughts were a hideous testimony to the world he had accepted; a
world in which murder was easier than hope.
   Well, he wasn't that far gone yet, he thought. I'm a man, not a destroyer.
   "What's wrong?" she said nervously.
   "What?"
   "You're staring at me."
   "I'm sorry," he said coldly. "I--I'm just thinking."
   She didn't say any more. She drank her wine and he saw her hand shake as she held the glass.
He forced down all introspection. He didn't want her to know what he felt.
   "When I showed him the cross," he said, "he laughed in my face."
   She nodded once.
   "But when I held a torah before his eyes, I got the reaction I wanted."
   "A what?"
   "A torah. Tablet of law, I believe it is."
   "And that--got a reaction?"
   "Yes. I had him tied up, but when he saw the torah he broke loose and attacked me."
   "What happened?" She seemed to have lost her fright again.
   "He struck me on the head with something. I don't remember what. I was almost knocked
out. But, using the torah, I backed him to the door and got rid of him."
   "So you see, the cross hasn't the power the legend says it has. My theory is that, since the
legend came into its own in Europe, a continent predominantly Catholic, the cross would
naturally become the symbol of defense against powers of darkness."
   "Couldn't you use your gun on Cortman?" she asked.
   "How do you know I had a gun?"
   "I--assumed as much," she said. "We had guns."
   "Then you must know bullets have no effect on vampires.
   "We were . . . never sure," she said, then went on quickly: "Do you know why that's so?
Why don't bullets affect them?"
   He shook his head. "I don't know," he said.
   They sat in silence listening to the music.
   He did know, but, doubting again, he didn't want to tell her.
   Through experiments on the dead vampires he had discovered that the bacilli effected the
creation of a powerful body glue that sealed bullet openings as soon as they were made. Bullets
were enclosed almost immediately, and since the system was activated by germs, a bullet
couldn't hurt it. The system could, in fact, contain almost an indefinite amount of bullets, since

          the body glue prevented a penetration of more than a few fractions of an inch. Shooting
vampires was like throwing pebbles into tar.
    As he sat looking at her, she arranged the folds of the robe around her legs and he got a
momentary glimpse of brown thigh. Far from being attracted, he felt irritated. It was a typical
feminine gesture, he thought, an artificial movement.
    As the moments passed he could almost sense himself drifting farther and farther from her. In
a way he almost regretted having found her at all. Through the years he had achieved a certain
degree of peace. He had accepted solitude, found it not half bad. Now this--ending it all.
    In order to fill the emptiness of the moment, he reached for his pipe and pouch. He stuffed
tobacco into the bowl and lit it. For a second he wondered if he should ask if she minded. He
didn't ask.
    The music ended. She got up and he watched her while she looked through his records. She
seemed like a young girl, she was so slender. Who is she? he thought. Who is she really?
    "May I play this?" she asked, holding up an album.
    He didn't even look at it. "If you like," he said.
    She sat down as Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto began. Her taste isn't remarkably
advanced, he thought, looking at her without expression.
    "Tell me about yourself," she said.
    Another typical feminine question, he thought. Then he berated himself for being so critical.
What was the point in irritating himself by doubting her?
    "Nothing to tell," he said.
    She was smiling again. Was she laughing at him?
    "You scared the life out of me this afternoon," she said. "You and your bristly beard. And
those wild eyes."
    He blew out smoke. Wild eyes? That was ridiculous. What was she trying to do? Break
down his reserve with cuteness?
    "What do you look like under all those whiskers?" she asked.
    He tried to smile at her but he couldn't.
    "Nothing," he said. "Just an ordinary face."
    "How old are you, Robert?"
    His throat moved. It was the first time she'd spoken his name. It gave him a strange, restless
feeling to hear a woman speak his name after so long. Don't call me that, he almost said to her.
He didn't want to lose the distance between them. If she were infected and he couldn't cure her,
he wanted it to be a stranger that he put away.
    She turned her head away.
    "You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to," she said quietly. "I won't bother you.
I'll go tomorrow."
    His chest muscles tightened.
    "But . . ." he said.
    "I don't want to spoil your life," she said. "You don't have to feel any obligation to me just
because--we're the only ones left."
    His eyes were bleak as he looked at her, and he felt a brief stirring of guilt at her words. Why
should I doubt her? he told himself. If she's infected, she'll never get away alive. What's there
to fear?
    "I'm sorry," he said. "I--I have been alone a long time."
    She didn't look up.

              "If you'd like to talk," he said, "I'll be glad to--tell you anything I can."
    She hesitated a moment. Then she looked at him, her eyes not committing themselves at all.
    "I would like to know about the disease," she said. "I lost my two girls because of it. And it
caused my husband's death."
    He looked at her and then spoke.
    "It's a bacillus," he said, "a cylindrical bacterium. It creates an isotonic solution in the blood,
circulates the blood slower than normal, activates all bodily functions, lives on fresh blood, and
provides energy. Deprived of blood, it makes self-killing bacteriophages or else sporulates."
    She looked blank. He realized then that she couldn't have understood. Terms so common to
him now were completely foreign to her.
    "Well," he said, "most of those things aren't so important. To sporulate is to create an oval
body that has all the basic ingredients of the vegetative bacterium. The germ does that when it
gets no fresh blood. Then, when the vampire host decomposes, these spores go flying out and
seek new hosts. They find one, germinate--and one more system is infected."
    She shook her head incredulously.
    "Bacteriophages are inanimate proteins that are also created when the system gets no blood.
Unlike the spores, though, in this case abnormal metabolism destroys the cells."
    Quickly he told her about the imperfect waste disposal of the lymphatic system, the ga rlic as
allergen causing anaphylaxis, the various vectors of the disease.
    "Then why are we immune?" she asked.
    For a long moment he looked at her, withholding any answer. Then, with a shrug, he said, "I
don't know about you. As for me, while I was statio ned in Panama during the war I was bitten
by a vampire bat. And, though I can't prove it, my theory is that the bat had previously
encountered a true vampire and acquired the vampiris germ. The germ caused the bat to seek
human rather than animal blood. But, by the time the germ had passed into my system, it had
been weakened in some way by the bat's system. It made me terribly ill, of course, but it didn't
kill me, and as a result, my body built up an immunity to it. That's my theory, anyway. I can't
find any better reason."
    "But--didn't the same thing happen to others down there?"
    "I don't know," he said quietly. "I killed the bat." He shrugged. "Maybe I was the first
human it had attacked."
    She looked at him without a word, her surveillance making Neville feel restive. He went on
talking even though he didn't really want to.
    Briefly he told her about the major obstacle in his study of the vampires.
    "At first I thought the stake had to hit their hearts," he said. "I believed the legend. I found
out that wasn't so. I put stakes in all parts of their bodies and they died. That made me think it
was hemorrhage. But then one day--"
    And he told her about the woman who had decomposed before his eyes.
    "I knew then it couldn't be hemorrhage," he went on, feeling a sort of pleasure in reciting his
discoveries. "I didn't know what to do. Then one day it came to me."
    "What?" she asked.
    "I took a dead vampire. I put his arm into an artificial vacuum. I punctured his arm inside
that vacuum. Blood spurted out." He paused. "But that's all."
    She stared at him.
    "You don't see," he said.
    "I--No," she admitted.

             "When I let air back into the tank, the arm decomposed," he said.
   She still stared.
   "You see," he said, "the bacillus is a facultative saprophyte. It lives with or without oxygen;
but with a difference. Inside the system, it is anaerobic and sets up a symbiosis with the system.
The vampire feeds it fresh blood, the bacteria provides the energy so the vampire can get more
fresh blood. The germ also causes, I might add, the growth of the canine teeth."
   "Yes?" she said.
   "When air enters," he said, "the situation changes instantaneously. The germ becomes
aerobic and, instead of being symbiotic, it becomes virulently parasitic." He paused. "It eats the
host," he said.
   "Then the stake--" she started.
   "Lets air in. Of course. Lets it in and keeps the flesh open so that the body glue can't
function. So the heart has nothing to do with it. What I do now is cut the wrists deep enough so
that the body glue can't work." He smiled a little. "When I think of all the time I used to spend
making stakes!"
   She nodded and, noticing the wineglass in her hand, put it down.
   "That's why the woman I told you about broke down so rapidly," he said. "She'd been dead
so long that as soon as air struck her system the germs caused spontaneous dissolution."
   Her throat moved and a shudder ran down through her.
   "It's horrible," she said.
   He looked at her in surprise. Horrible? Wasn't that odd? He hadn't thought that for years.
For him the word `horror' had become obsolete. A surfeiting of terror soon made terror a clich�.
To Robert Neville the situation merely existed as natural fact. It had no adjectives.
   "And what about the--the ones who are still alive?" she asked.
   "Well," he said, "when you cut their wrists the germ naturally becomes parasitic. But mostly
they die from simple hemorrhage."
   "Simple--"
   She turned away quickly and her lips were pressed into a tight, thin line.
   "What's the matter?" he asked.
   "N-nothing. Nothing," she said.
   He smiled. "One gets used to these things," he said. "One has to."
   Again she shuddered, the smooth column of her throat contracting.
   "You can't abide by Robert's Rules of Order in the jungle," he said. "Believe me, it's the
only thing I can do. Is it better to let them die of the disease and return--in a far more terrible
way?"
   She pressed her hands together.
   "But you said a lot of them are--are still living," she said nervously. "How do you know
they're not going to stay alive?"
   "I know," he said. "I know the germ, know how it multiplies. No matter how long their
systems fight it, in the end the germ will win. I've made antibiotics, injected dozens of them.
But it doesn't work, it can't work. You can't make vaccines work when they're already deep in
the disease. Their bodies can't fight germs and make antibodies at the same time. It can't be
done, believe me. It's a trap. If I didn't kill them, sooner or later they'd die and come after me.
I have no choice; no choice at all."
   They were silent then and the only sound in the room was the rasping of the needle on the
inner grooves of the record. She wouldn't look at him, but kept staring at the floor with bleak

          eyes. It was strange, he thought, to find himself vaguely on the defensive for what yesterday was
accepted necessity. In the years that had passed he had never once considered the possibility that
he was wrong. It took her presence to bring about such thoughts: And they were strange, alien
thoughts.
   "Do you actually think I'm wrong?" he asked in an incredulous voice.
   She bit into her lower lip.
   "Ruth," he said.
   "It's not for me to say," she answered.

                                                  Chapter Eighteen



   "VIRGE!"
   The dark form recoiled against the wall as Robert Neville's hoarse cry ripped open the silent
blackness.
   He jerked his body up from the couch and stared with sleep-clouded eyes across the room, his
chest pulsing with heartbeats like maniac fists on a dungeon wall.
   He lurched up to his feet, brain still foggy with sleep; unable to define time or place.
   "Virge?" he said again, weakly, shakily. "Virge?'
   "It--it's me," the faltering voice said in the darkness. He took a trembling step toward the
thin stream of light spearing through the open peephole. He blinked dully at the light.
   She gasped as he put his hand out and clutched her shoulder.
   "It's Ruth. Ruth," she said in a terrified whisper. He stood there rocking slowly in the
darkness, eyes gazing without comprehension at the dark form before him.
   "It's Ruth," she said again, more loudly. Waking came like a hose blast of numbing shock.
Something twisted cold knots into his chest and stomach. It wasn't Virge. He shook his head
suddenly, rubbed shaking fingers across his eyes.
   Then he stood there staring, weighted beneath a sudden depression.
   "Oh," he muttered faintly. "Oh, I--"
   He remained there, feeling his body weaving slowly in the dark as the mists cleared from his
brain.
   He looked at the open peephole, then back at her.
   "What are you doing?" he asked, voice still thick with sleep.
   "Nothing," she said nervously. "I--couldn't sleep."
   He blinked his eyes suddenly at the flaring lamplight. Then his hands dropped down from the
lamp switch and he turned around. She was against the wall still, blinking at the light, her hands
at her sides drawn into tight fists.
   "Why are you dressed?" he asked in a surprised voice. Her throat moved and she stared at
him. He rubbed his eyes again and pushed back the long hair from his temples.
   "I was--just looking out," she said.
   "But why are you dressed?"
   "I couldn't sleep."
   He stood looking at her, still a little groggy, feeling his heartbeat slowly diminish. Through
the open peephole he heard them yelling outside, and he heard Cortman shout, "Come out,
Neville!" Moving to the peephole, he pushed the small wooden door shut and turned to her.
   "I want to know why you're dressed," he said again.
   "No reason," she said.
   "Were you going to leave while I was asleep?"
   ``No, I--"
   "Were you?"
   She gasped as he grabbed her wrist.

              "No, no," she said quickly. "How could I, with them out there?"
    He stood breathing heavily, looking at her frightened face. His throat moved slowly as he
remembered the shock of waking up and thinking that she was Virge.
    Abruptly he dropped her arm and turned away. And he'd thought the past was dead. How
long did it take for a past to die?
    She said nothing as he poured a tumblerful of whisky and swallowed it convulsively. Virge,
Virge, he thought miserably, still with me. He closed his eyes and jammed his teeth together.
    "Was that her name?" he heard Ruth ask. His muscles tightened, then went slack.
    "It's all right," he said in a dead voice. "Go to bed."
    She drew back a little. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean--"
    Suddenly he knew he didn't want her to go to bed. He wanted her to stay with him. He didn't
know why, he just didn't want to be alone.
    "I thought you were my wife," he heard himself saying. "I woke up and I thought--"
    He drank a mouthful of whisky, coughing as part of it went down the wrong way. Ruth
stayed in the shadows, listening.
    "She came back, you see," he said. "I buried her, but one night she came back. She looked
like--like you did. An outline, a shadow. Dead. But she came back. I tried to keep her with
me. I tried, but she wasn't the same any more--you see. All she wanted was--"
    He forced down the sob in his throat.
    "My own wife," he said in a trembling voice, "coming back to drink my blood!"
    He jammed down the glass on the bar top. Turning away, he paced restlessly to the peephole,
turned, and went back and stood again before the bar. Ruth said nothing; she just stood in the
darkness, listening.
    "I put her away again," he said. "I had to do the same thing to her I'd done to the others. My
own wife." There was a clicking in his throat. "A stake," he said in a terrible voice. "I had to
put a stake in her. It was the only thing I knew to do. I--"
    He couldn't finish. He stood there a long time, shivering helplessly, his eyes tightly shut.
    Then he spoke again.
    "Almost three years ago I did that. And I still remember it, it's still with me. What can you
do? What can you do?" He drove a fist down on the bar top as the anguish of memory swept
over him again. "No matter how you try, you can't forget or--or adjust or--ever get away from
it!"
    He ran shaking fingers through his hair.
    "I know what you feel, I know. I didn't at first, I didn't trust you. I was safe, secure in my
little shell. Now--He shook his head slowly, defeatedly. "In a second, it's all gone.
Adjustment, security, peace--all gone."
    "Robert."
    Her voice was as broken and lost as his.
    "Why were we punished like this?" she asked.
    He drew in a shuddering breath.
    "I don't know," he answered bitterly. "There's no answer, no reason. It just is."
    She was close to him now. And suddenly, without hesitation or drawing back, he drew her
against him, and they were two people holding each other tightly in the lost measure of night.
    "Robert, Robert."
    Her hands rubbed over his back, stroking and clutching, while his arms held her firmly and he
pressed his eyes shut against her warm, soft hair.

              Their mouths held together for a long time and her arms gripped with desperate tightness
around his neck.
    Then they were sitting in the darkness, pressing close together, as if all the heat in the world
were in their bodie s and they would share the warmth between them. He felt the shuddering rise
and fall of her breasts as she held close to him, her arms tight around his body, her face against
his neck. His big hands moved roughly through her hair, stroking and feeling the silky strands.
    "I'm sorry, Ruth."
    "Sorry?"
    "For being so cruel to you, for not trusting you."
    She was silent, holding tight.
    "Oh, Robert," she said then, "it's so unfair. So unfair. Why are we still alive? Why aren't
we all dead? It would be better if we were all dead."
    "Shhh, shhh," he said, feeling emotion for her like a released current pouring from his heart
and mind. "It'll be all right."
    He felt her shaking her head slowly against him.
    "It will, it will," he said.
    "How can it?"
    "It will," he said, even though he knew he really couldn't believe it, even though he knew it
was only released tension forming words in his mind.
    "No," she said. "No."
    "Yes, it will. It will, Ruth."
    He didn't know how long it was they sat there holding each other close. He forgot
everything, time and place; it was just the two of them together, needing each other, survivors of
a black terror embracing because they had found each other.
    But then he wanted to do something for her, to help her.
    "Come," he said. "We'll check you."
    She stiffened in his arms.
    "No, no," he said quickly. "Don't be afraid. I'm sure we won't find anything. But if we do,
I'll cure you. I swear I'll cure you, Ruth."
    She was looking at him in the darkness, not saying a word. He stood and pulled her up with
him, trembling with an excitement he hadn't felt in endless years. He wanted to cure her, to help
her.
    "Let me," he said. "I won't hurt you. I promise I won't. Let's know--Let's find out for sure.
Then we can plan and work. I'll save you, Ruth. I will. Or I'll die myself."
    She was still tense, holding back.
    "Come with me, Ruth."
    Now that the strength of his reserve had gone, there was nothing left to brace himself on, and
he was shaking like a palsied man.
    He led her into the bedroom. And when he saw in the lamplight how frightened she was, he
pulled her close and stroked her hair.
    "It's all right," he said. "All right, Ruth. No matter what we find, it'll be all right. Don't you
understand?"
    He sat her down on the stool and her face was completely blank, her body shuddering as he
heated the needle over a Bunsen flame.
    He bent over and kissed her on the cheek.
    "It's all right now," he said gently. "It's all right."

              She closed her eyes as he jabbed in the needle. He could feel the pain in his own finger as he
pressed out blood and rubbed it on the slide.
    "There. There," he said anxiously, pressing a little cotton to the nick on her finger. He felt
himself trembling helplessly. No matter how he tried to control it, he couldn't. His fingers were
almost incapable of making the slide, and he kept looking at Ruth and smiling at her, trying to
take the look of taut fright from her features.
    "Don't be afraid," he said. "Please don't. I'll cure you if you're infected. I will Ruth, I will."
    She sat without a word, looking at him with listless eyes as he worked. Her hands kept
stirring restlessly in her lap.
    "What will you do if--if I am," she said then.
    "I'm not sure," he said. "Not yet. But there are a lot of things we can do."
    "What?"
    "Vaccines, for one."
    "You said vaccines didn't work," she said, her voice shaking a little.
    "Yes, but--" He broke off as he slid the glass slide onto the microscope.
    "Robert, what could you do?"
    She slid off the stool as he bent over the microscope.
    "Robert, don't look!" she begged suddenly, her voice pleading.
    But he'd already seen.
    He didn't realize that his breath had stopped. His blank eyes met hers.
    "Ruth," he whispered in a shocked voice.
    The wooden mallet crashed down on his forehead.
    A burst of pain filled Robert Neville's head and he felt one leg give way. As he fell to one
side he knocked over the microscope. His right knee hit the floor and he looked up in dazed
bewilderment at her fright-twisted face. The mallet came down again and he cried out in pain.
He fell to both knees and his palms struck the floor as he toppled forward. A hundred miles
away he heard her gasping sob.
    "Ruth," he mumbled.
    "I told you not to!" she cried.
    He clutched out at her legs and she drove the mallet down a third time, this time on the back
of his skull.
    "Ruth!"
    Robert Neville's hands went limp and slid off her calves, rubbing away part of the tan. He
fell on his face and his fingers drew in convulsively as night filled his brain.

                                                  Chapter Nineteen



   WHEN HE OPENED HIS eyes there was no sound in the house.
   He lay there a moment looking confusedly at the floor. Then, with a startled grunt, he sat up.
A package of needles exploded in his head and he slumped down on the cold floor, hands
pressed to his throbbing skull. A clicking sound filled his throat as he lay there.
   After a few minutes he pulled himself up slowly by gripping the edge of the bench. The floor
undulated beneath him as he held on tightly, eyes closed, legs wavering.
   A minute later he managed to stumble into the bathroom. There he threw cold water in his
face and sat on the bathtub edge pressing a cold, wet cloth to his forehead.
   What had happened? He kept blinking and staring at the white-tiled floor.
   He stood up and walked slowly into the living room. It was empty. The front door stood half
open in the gray of early morning. She was gone.
   Then he remembered. He struggled back to the bedroom, using the walls to guide him.
   The note was on the bench next to the overturned microscope. He picked up the paper with
numbed fingers and carried it to the bed. Sinking down with a groan, he held the letter before his
eyes. But the letters blurred and ran. He shook his head and pressed his eyes shut. After a little
while he read:

    Robert:

    Now you know. Know that I was spying on you, know that almost everything I told
    you was a lie.
    I'm writing this note, though, because I want to save you if I can.
    When I was first given the job of spying on you, I had no feelings about your life.
    Because I did have a husband, Robert. You killed him.
    But now it's different. I know now that you were just as much forced into your
    situation as we were forced into ours. We are infected. But you already know that.
    What you don't understand yet is that we're going to stay alive. We've found a way to
    do that and we're going to set up society again slowly but surely. We're going to do
    away with all those wretched creatures whom death has cheated. And, even though I
    pray otherwise, we may decide to kill you and those like you.

  Those like me? he thought with a start. But he kept reading.

    I'll try to save you. I'll tell them you're too well armed for us to attack now. Use the
    time I'm giving you, Robert! Get away from your house, go into the mountains and
    save yourself. There are only a handful of us now. But sooner or later we'll be too well
    organized, and nothing I say will stop the rest from destroying you. For God's sake,
    Robert, go now, while you can!
    I know you may not believe this. You may not believe that we can live in the sun for

              short periods now. You may not believe that my tan was only make-up. You may not
    believe that we can live with the germ now.
    That's why I'm leaving one of my pills.
    I took them all the time I was here. I kept them in a belt around my waist. You'll
    discover that they're a combination of defebrinated blood and a drug. I don't know
    myself just what it is. The blood feeds the germs, the drug prevents its multiplication.
    It was the discovery of this pill that saved us from dying, that is helping to set up
    society again slowly.
    Believe me, it's true. And escape!
    Forgive me, too. I didn't mean to hit you, it nearly killed me to do it. But I was so
    terribly frightened of what you'd do when you found out.
    Forgive me for having to lie to you about so many things. But please believe this:
    When we were together in the darkness, close to each other, I wasn't spying on you. I
    was loving you.

                                                                                   Ruth

    He read the letter again. Then his hands fell forward and he sat there staring with empty eyes
at the floor. He couldn't believe it. He shook his head slowly and tried to understand, but
adjustment eluded him.
    He walked unsteadily to the bench. He picked up the small amber pill and held it in his palm,
smelled it, tasted it. He felt as if all the security of mason were ebbing away from him. The
framework of his life was collapsing and it frightened him.
    Yet how did he refute the evidence? The pill, the tan coming off her leg, her walking in the
sun, her reaction to garlic.
    He sank down on the stool and looked at the mallet lying on the floor. Slowly, ploddingly,
his mind went over the evidence.
    When he'd first seen her she'd run from him. Had it been a ruse? No, she'd been genuinely
frightened. She must have been startled by his cry, then, even though she'd been expecting it,
and forgotten all about her job. Then later, when she'd calmed down, she'd talked him into
thinking that her reaction to garlic was the reaction of a sick stomach. And she had lied and
smiled and feigned hopeless acceptance and carefully got all the information she'd been sent
after. And, when she'd wanted to leave, she couldn't because of Cortman and the others. He
had awakened then. They had embraced, they had--
    His white-knuckled fist jolted down on the bench. "I was loving you." Lie. Lie! His fingers
crumpled up the letter and flung it away bitterly.
    Rage made the pain in his head flare hotly and he pressed both hands against it and closed his
eyes with a groan.
    Then he looked up. Slowly he slid off the stool and placed the microscope back on its base.
    The rest of her letter wasn't a lie, he knew that. Without the pill, without any evidence of
word or memory, he knew. He knew what even Ruth and her people didn't seem to know.
    He looked into the eyepiece for a long time. Yes, he knew. And the admission of what he
saw changed his entire world. How stupid and ineffective he felt for never having foreseen it!
Especially after reading the phrase a hundred, a thousand times. But then he 'd never really
appreciated it. Such a short phrase it was, but meaning so much.
    Bacteria can mutate.

                                              PART IV: January 1979

                                          Chapter Twenty



    THEY CAME BY NIGHT. Came in their dark cars with their spotlights and their guns and
their axes and pikes. Came from the blackness with a great sound of motors, the long white arms
of their spotlights snapping around the boulevard corner and clutching out at Cimarron Street.
    Robert Neville was sitting at the peephole when they came. He had put down a book and was
sitting there watching idly when the beams splashed white across the bloodless vampire faces
and they whirled with a gasp, their dark animal eyes staring at the blinding lights.
    Neville jumped back from the peephole, his heart thudding with the abrupt shock. For a
moment he stood there trembling in the dark room, unable to decide what to do. His throat
contracted and he heard the roar of the car motors even through the soundproofing on his house.
He thought of the pistols in his bureau, the sub- machine gun on his workbench, thought of
defending his house against them.
    Then he pressed his fingers in until the nails dug at his palms. No, he'd made his decision,
he'd worked it out carefully through the past months. He would not fight.
    With a heavy, sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach he stepped back to the peephole and
looked out.
    The street was a scene of rushing, violent action illuminated by the bald glare of the
spotlights. Men rushed at men, the sound of running boots covered the pavement. Then a shot
rang out, echoing hollowly; more shots.
    Two male vampires went thrashing down onto their sides. Four men grabbed them by the
arms and jerked them up while two other men drove the glittering lance points of their pikes into
the vampires' chests. Neville's face twitched as screams filled the night. He felt his chest
shuddering with labored breath as he watched from his house.
    The dark-suited men knew exactly what they were doing. There were about seven vampires
visible, six men and a woman. The men surrounded the seven, held their flailing arms, and
drove razor-tipped pikes deep into their bodies. Blood spouted out on the dark pavement and the
vampires perished one by one. Neville felt himself shivering more and more. Is this the new
society? The words flashed across his mind. He tried to believe that the men were forced into
what they were doing, but shock brought terrible doubt. Did they have to do it like this, with
such a black and brutal slaughtering? Why did they slay with alarum by night, when by day the
vampires could be dispatched in peace?
    Robert Neville felt tight fists shaking at his sides. He didn't like the looks of them, he didn't
like the methodical butchery. They were more like gangsters than men forced into a situa tion.
There were looks of vicious triumph on their faces, white and stark in the spotlights. Their faces
were cruel and emotionless.
    Suddenly Neville felt himself shudder violently, remembering. Where was Ben Cortman?
    His eyes fled over the street but he couldn't see Cortman. He pressed against the peephole
and looked up and down the street. He didn't want them to get Cortman, he realized, didn't want

          them to destroy Cortman like that. With a sense of inward shock he could not analyze in the rush
of the moment, he realized that he felt more deeply toward the vampires than he did toward their
executioners.
   Now the seven vampires lay crumpled and still in their pools of stolen blood. The spotlights
were moving around the street, flaying open the night. Neville turned his head away as the
brilliant glare blazed across the front of his house. Then the spotlight had turned about and he
looked again.
   A shout. Neville's eyes jumped toward the focus of the spotlights.
   He stiffened.
   Cortman was on the roof of the house across the street. He was pulling himself up toward the
chimney, body flattened on the shingles.
   Abruptly it came to Neville that it was in that chimney that Ben Cortman had hidden most of
the time, and he felt a wrench of despair at the knowledge. His lips pressed together tightly.
Why hadn't he looked more carefully? He couldn't fight the sick apprehension he felt at the
thought of Cortman's being killed by these brutal strangers. Objectively, it was pointless, but he
could not repress the feeling. Cortman was not theirs to put to rest.
   But there was nothing he could do.
   With bleak, tortured eyes he watched the spotlights cluster on Cortman's wriggling body. He
watched the white hands reaching out slowly for handholds on the roof. Slowly, slowly, as if
Cortman had all the time in the world. Hurry up! Neville felt himself twitch with the unspoken
words as he watched. He felt himself straining with Cortman's agonizingly slow movements.
   The men did not shout, they did not command. They raised their rifles now and the night was
torn open again with their exploding fire.
   Neville almost felt the bullets in his own flesh. His body jerked with convulsive shudders as
he watched Cortman's body jerk under the impact of the bullets.
   Still Cortman kept crawling, and Neville saw his white face, his teeth gritted together. The
end of Oliver Hardy, he thought, the death of all comedy and all laughter. He didn't hear the
continuous fusillade of shots. He didn't even feel the tears running down his cheeks. His eyes
were riveted on the ungainly form of his old friend inching up the brightly lit roof.
   Now Cortman rose up on his knees and clutched at the chimney edge with spasmodic fingers.
His body lurched as more bullets struck. His dark eyes glared into the blinding spotlights, his
lips were drawn back in a soundless snarl.
   Then he was standing up beside the chimney and Neville's face was white and taut as he
watched Cortman start to raise his right leg.
   And then the hammering machine gun splattered Cortman's flesh with lead. For a moment
Cortman stood erect in the hot blast, palsied hands raised high over his head, a look of berserk
defiance twisting his white features.
   "Ben," Neville muttered in a croaking whisper.
   Ben Cortman's body folded, slumped forward, fell. It slid and rolled slowly down the
shingled incline, then dropped into space. In the sudden silence Neville heard the thump of it
from across the street. Sick-eyed, he watched the men rush at the writhing body with their pikes.
   Then Neville closed his eyes and his nails dug furrows in the flesh of his palms.
   A clumping of boots. Neville jerked back into the darkness. He stood in the middle of the
room, waiting for them to call to him and tell him to come out. He held himself rigidly. I'm not
going to fight, he told himself strongly. Even though he wanted to fight, even though he already
hated the dark men with their guns and their bloodstained pikes.

              But he wasn't going to fight. He had worked out his decision very carefully. They were
doing what they had to do, albeit with unnecessary violence and seeming relish. He had killed
their people and they had to capture him and save themselves. He would not fight. He'd throw
himself upon the justice of their new society. When they called to him he would go out and
surrender, it was his decision.
    But they didn't call. Neville lurched back with a gasp as the ax blade bit deeply into the front
door. He stood trembling in the dark living room. What were they doing? Why didn't they call
on him to surrender? He wasn't a vampire, he was a man like them. What were they doing?
    He whirled and stared at the kitchen. They were chopping at the boarded- up back door too.
He took a nervous step toward the hallway. His frightened eyes rushed from the back to the
front door. He felt his heart pumping. He didn't understand, he didn't understand!
    With a grunt of shocked surprise he jumped into the hall as the enclosed house rang with the
gun explosion. The men were shooting away the lock on the front door. Another reverberating
shot made his ears ring.
    And, suddenly, he knew. They weren't going to take him to their courts, to their justice.
They were going to exterminate him.
    With a frightened murmur he ran into the bedroom. His hands fumbled in the bureau drawer.
    He straightened up on trembling legs, the guns in his hands. But what if they were going to
take him prisoner? He'd only judged by the fact that they hadn't called on him to come out.
There were no lights in the house; maybe the y thought he was already gone.
    He stood shivering in the darkness of the bedroom, not knowing what to do, mutters of terror
filling his throat Why hadn't he left! Why hadn't he listened to her and left? Fool!
    One of his guns fell from nerveless fingers as the front door was crushed in. Heavy feet
thudded into the living room and Robert Neville shuffled back across the floor, his remaining
pistol held out with rigid, blood-drained fingers. They weren't going to kill him without a fight!
    He gasped as he collided with the bench. He stood there tautly. In the front room a man said
something he couldn't understand, then flashlight beams shone into the hall. Neville caught his
breath. He felt the room spinning around him. So this is the end. It was the only thing he could
think. So this is the end.
    Heavy shoes thumped in the hall. Neville's fingers tightened still more on the pistol and his
eyes stared with wild fright at the doorway.
    Two men came in.
    Their white beams played around the room, struck his face. The two men recoiled abruptly.
    "He's got a gun!" one of them cried, and fired his pistol.
    Neville heard the bullet smash into the wall over his head. Then the pistol was jolting in his
hand, splashing his face with bursts of light. He didn't fire at any one of them; he just kept
pulling the trigger automatically. One of the men cried out in pain.
    Then Neville felt a violent club blow across his chest. He staggered back, and jagged,
burning pain exploded in his body. He fired once more, then crashed to his knees, the pistol
slipping from his fingers.
    "You got him!" he heard someone cry as he fell on his face. He tried to reach out for the
pistol but a dark boot stamped on his hand and broke it. Neville drew in his hand with a rattling
gasp and stared through pain-glazed eyes at the floor.
    Rough hands slid under his armpits and pulled him up. He kept wondering when they would
shoot him again. Virge, he thought, Virge, I'm coming with you now. The pain in his chest was
like molten lead poured over him from a great height. He felt and heard his boot tips scraping

          over the floor and waited for death. I want to die in my own house, he thought. He struggled
feebly but they didn't stop. Hot pain raked saw-toothed nails through his chest as they dragged
him through the front room.
   "No," he groaned. "No!"
   Then pain surged up from his chest and drove a barbed club into his brain. Everything began
spinning away into blackness.
   "Virge," he muttered in a hoarse whisper.
   And the dark men dragged his lifeless body from the house. Into the night. Into the world
that was theirs and no longer his.

                                                 Chapter Twenty-One



    SOUND; A MURMURED RUSTLE in the air. Robert Neville coughed weakly, then
grimaced as the pain filled his chest. A bubbling groan passed his lips and his head rolled
slightly on the flat pillow. The sound grew stronger, it became a rumbling mixture of noises.
His hands drew in slowly at his sides. Why didn't they take the fire off his chest? He could feel
hot coals dropping through openings in his flesh. Another groan, agonized and breathless,
twitched his graying lips. Then his eyes fluttered open.
    He stared at the rough plaster ceiling for a full minute without blinking. Pain ebbed and
swelled in his chest with an endless, nerve-clutching throb. His face remained a taut, lined mask
of resistance to the pain. If he relaxed for a second, it enveloped him completely; he had to fight
it. For the first few minutes he could only struggle with the pain, suffering beneath its hot
stabbing. Then, after a while, his brain began to function; slowly, like a machine faltering,
starting and stopping, turning and jamming gears.
    Where am I? It was his first thought. The pain was awful. He looked down at his chest and
saw that it was bound with a wide bandage, a great, moist spot of red rising and falling jerkily in
the middle of it. He closed his eyes and swallowed. I'm hurt, he thought. I'm hurt badly. His
mouth and throat felt powdery dry. Where am I, what am I--
    Then he remembered; the dark men and the attack on his house. And he knew where he was
even before he turned his head slowly, achingly, and saw the barred windows across the tiny
cubicle. He looked at the windows for a long time, face tight, teeth clenched together. The
sound was outside; the rushing, confused sound.
    He let his head roll back on the pillow and lay staring at the ceiling. It was hard to understand
the moment on its own terms. Hard to believe it wasn't all a nightmare. Over three years alone
in his house. Now this.
    But he couldn't doubt the sharp, shifting pain in his chest and he couldn't doubt the way the
moist, red spot kept getting bigger and bigger. He closed his eyes. I'm going to die, he thought
    He tried to understand that. But that didn't work either. In spite of having lived with death all
these years, in spite of having walked a tightrope of bare existence across an endless maw of
death--in spite of that he couldn't understand it. Personal death still was a thing beyond
comprehension.
    He was still on his back when the door behind him opened.
    He couldn't turn; it hurt too much. He lay there and listened to footsteps approach the bed,
then stop. He looked up but the person hadn't come into view yet. My executioner, he thought,
the justice of this new society. He closed his eyes and waited.
    The shoes moved again until he knew the person was by the cot. He tried to swallow but his
throat was too dry. He ran his tongue over his lips.
    "Are you thirsty?"
    He looked up with dulled eyes at her and suddenly his heart began throbbing. The increased
blood flow made the pain billow up and swallow him for a moment. He couldn't cut off the
groan of agony. He twisted his head on the pillow, biting his lips and clutching at the blanket

          feverishly. The red spot grew bigger.
    She was on her knees now, patting perspiration from his brow, touching his lips with a cool,
wet cloth. The pain began to subside slowly and her face came into gradual focus. Neville lay
motionless, staring at her with pain- filled eye s.
    "So," he finally said.
    She didn't answer. She got up and sat on the edge of the bed. She patted his brow again.
Then she reached over his head and he heard her pouring water into a glass.
    The pain dug razors into him as she lifted his head a little so he could drink. This is what they
must have felt when the pikes went into them, he thought. This cutting, biting agony, the escape
of life's blood.
    His head fell back on the pillow.
    "Thank you," he murmured.
    She sat looking down, at him, a strange mixture of sympathy and detachment on her face.
Her reddish hair was drawn back into a tight cluster behind her head and clipped there. She
looked very clean-cut and self-possessed.
    "You wouldn't believe me, would you?" she said.
    A little cough puffed out his cheeks. His mouth opened and he sucked in some of the damp
morning air.
    "I--believed you," he said.
    "Then why didn't you go?"
    He tried, to speak but the words jumbled together. His throat moved and he drew in another
faltering breath.
    "I--couldn't," he muttered. "I almost went several times. Once I even packed and --started
out. But I couldn't, I couldn't--go. I was too used to the--the house. It was a habit, just--just
like the habit of living. I got--used to it."
    Her eyes ran over his sweat- greased face and she pressed her lips, together as she patted his
forehead again.
    "It's too late now," she said then. "You know that, don't you?"
    Something clicked in his throat as he swallowed.
    "I know," he said.
    He tried to smile but his lips only twitched.
    "Why did you fight them?" she said. "They had orders to bring you in unharmed. If you
hadn't fired at them they wouldn't have harmed you."
    His throat, contracted.
    "What difference--" he gasped.
    His eyes closed and he gritted his teeth tightly to force back the pain.
    When he opened them again she was still there. The expression on her face had not changed.
    His smile was weak and tortured.
    "Your--your society is--certainly a fine one," he gasped. "Who are those--those gangsters
who came to get me? The--the council of justice?"
    Her look was dispassionate. She's changed, he thought suddenly.
    "New societies are always primitive," she answered. "You should know that. In a way we're
like a revolutionary group--repossessing society by violence. It's inevitable. Violence is no
stranger to you. You've killed. Many times."
    "Only to--to survive."
    "That's exactly why we're killing," she said calmly. "To survive. We can't allow the dead to

          exist beside the living. Their brains are impaired, they exist for only one purpose. They have to
be destroyed. As one who killed the dead and the living, you know that."
    The deep breath he took made the pain wrench at his insides. His eyes were stark with pain as
he shuddered. It's got to end soon, he thought. I can't stand much more of this. No, death did
not frighten him. He didn't understand it, but he didn't fear it either.
    The swelling pain sank down and the clouds passed from his eyes. He looked up at her calm
face.
    "I hope so," he said. "But--but did you see their faces when they--they killed?" His throat
moved convulsively. "Joy," he mumbled. "Pure joy."
    Her smile was thin and withdrawn. She has changed, he thought, entirely.
    "Did you ever see your face," she asked, "when you killed?" She patted his brow with the
cloth. "I saw it--remember? It was frightening. And you weren't even killing then, you were
just chasing me."
    He closed his eyes. Why am I listening to her? he thought. She's become a brainless convert
to this new violence.
    "Maybe you did see joy on their faces," she said. "It's not surprising. They're young. And
they are killers--assigned killers, legal killers. They're respected for their killing, admired for it.
What can you expect from them? They're only fallible men. And men can learn to enjoy killing.
That's an old story, Neville. You know that."
    He looked up at her. Her smile was the tight, forced smile of a woman who was trying to
forgo being a woman in favor of her dedication.
    "Robert Neville," she said, "the last of the old race."
    His face tightened.
    "Last?' he muttered, feeling the heavy sinking of utter loneliness in him.
    "As far as we know," she said casually. "You're quite unique, you know. When you're gone,
there won't be anyone else like you within our particular society."
    He looked toward the window.
    "Those are--people--outside," he said.
    She nodded. "They're waiting."
    "For my death?'
    "For your execution," she said.
    He felt himself tighten as he looked up at her.
    "You'd better hurry," he said, without fear, with a sudden defiance in his hoarse voice.
    They looked at each other for a long moment. Then something seemed to give in her. Her
face grew blank.
    "I knew it," she said softly. "I knew you wouldn't be afraid."
    Impulsively she put her hand over his.
    "When I first heard that they were ordered to your house, I was going to go there and warn
you. But then I knew that if you were still there, nothing would make you go. Then I was going
to try to help you escape after they brought you in. But they told me you'd been shot and I knew
that escape was impossible too."
    A smile flitted over her lips.
    "I'm glad you're not afraid," she said. "You're very brave." Her voice grew soft. "Robert."
    They were silent and he felt her hand tighten on his.
    "How is it you can--come in here?" he asked then.
    "I'm a ranking officer in the new society," she said.

             His hand stirred under hers.
   "Don't--let it get--" He coughed up blood. "Don't let it get--too brutal. Too heartless."
   "What can I--" she started, then stopped. She smiled at him. "I'll try," she said.
   He couldn't go on. The pain was getting worse. It twisted and turned like a clutching animal
in his body.
   Ruth leaned over him.
   "Robert," she said, "listen to me. They mean to execute you. Even though you're wounded.
They have to. The people have been out there all night, waiting. They're terrified of you,
Robert, they hate you. And they want your life."
   She reached up quickly and unbuttoned her blouse. Reaching under her brassiere, she took
out a tiny packet and pressed it into his right palm.
   "It's all I can do, Robert," she whispered, "to make it easier. I warned you, I told you to go."
Her voice broke a little. "You just can't fight so many, Robert."
   "I know." The words were gagging sounds in his throat.
   For a moment she stood over his bed, a look of natural compassion on her face. It was all a
pose, he thought, her coming in and being so official. She was afraid to be herself. I can
understand that.
   Ruth bent over him and her cool lips pressed on his.
   "You'll be with her soon," she murmured hastily.
   Then she straightened up, her lips pressed together tightly. She buttoned the two top buttons
of her blouse. A moment longer she looked down at him. Then her eyes glanced at his right
hand.
   "Take them soon," she murmured, and turned away quickly.
   He heard her footsteps moving across the floor. Then the door was shutting and he heard the
sound of it being locked. He closed his eyes and felt warm tears pushing out from beneath the
lids. Good-by, Ruth.
   Good-by, everything.
   Then, suddenly, he drew in a quick breath. Bracing himself, he pushed himself up to a sitting
position. He refused to let himself collapse at the burning pain that exploded in his chest. Teeth
grating together, he stood up on his feet. For a moment he almost fell, but, catching his balance,
he stumbled across the floor on vibrating legs he could hardly feel.
   He fell against the window and looked out.
   The street was filled with people. They milled and stirred in the gray light of morning, the
sound of their talking like the buzzing of a million insects.
   He looked out over the people, his left hand gripping the bars with bloodless fingers, his eyes
fever- lit.
   Then someone saw him.
   For a moment there was an increased babbling of voices, a few startled cries.
   Then sudden silence, as though a heavy blanket had fallen over their heads. They all stood
looking up at him with their white faces. He stared back. And suddenly he thought, I'm the
abnormal one now. Normalcy was a majority concept, the standard of many and not the standard
of just one man.
   Abruptly that realization joined with what he saw on their faces--awe, fear, shrinking
horror--and he knew that they were afraid of him. To them he was some terrible scourge they
had never seen, a scourge even worse than the disease they had come to live with. He was an
invisible specter who had left for evidence of his existence the bloodless bodies of their loved

          ones. And he understood what they felt and did not hate them. His right hand tightened on the
tiny envelope of pills. So long as the end did not come with violence, so long as it did not have
to be a butchery before their eyes
   Robert Neville looked out over the new people of the earth. He knew he did not belong to
them; he knew that, like the vampires, he was anathema and black terror to be destroyed. And,
abruptly, the concept came, amusing to him even in his pain.
   A coughing chuckle filled his throat. He turned and leaned against the wall while he
swallowed the pills. Full circle, he thought while the final lethargy crept into his limbs. Full
circle. A new terror born in death, a new superstition entering the unassailable fortress of
forever.
   I am legend.

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