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. Again 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.