[Part 2] "I Am Legend" by Richard Matheson

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈.

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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 sixtwenty 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, he 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, later 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 tworeelers he'd looked at with his projector.

Cortman was almost a dead ringer for the rolypoly 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, nerveshattered 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?

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐗.

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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 darkleaved 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 greasethick 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 Knabe 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, Sundrenched 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 oar 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 night 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 highweeded 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 nostrils 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 filledin trench.

He began to tremble.

No, he ordered himself, there's no time for that.

It was no use.

The world 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 mom, 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.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗.

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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 secondfloor 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, graystoned 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 highceilinged room with tall, largepaned 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 then 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 dustsurfaced 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 fourtwentyseven.

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 redpainted curb, facing in the wrong direction on a oneway street.

He looked up and down the street.

“Policeman!” he found himself calling.

“Oh, police- man!”

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 ironbound 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 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 newfound 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 cut 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 it 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 in 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.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐈.

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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 bad 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 halfcocked.

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 threeinch power to a onetwelfthinch power.

In the case of the latter, he learned to place a drop of cedarwood 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 readymade 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 thirtyseventh 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, thirtysix, 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, selfreproducing 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 bloodeyed 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.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐈𝐈.

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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 germridden 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 righthand 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 righthand 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 righthand 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 halfstaked” 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 em, boy, come em.”

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 without 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, mindcontrolling 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 moment 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 selfreproach, 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.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈.

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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.

Tenfifteen.

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 airconditioning 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 whiterimmed, 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 but, 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 tight, 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 nerveracked 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 slowmoving 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 bench 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 yellowishwhite teeth, a halfmad 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, terrorstricken, 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 highpitched 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 tight, 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 blanketcovered 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.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐈𝐕.

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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 derringdo 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 redsplotched 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, handclapping 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 halflight like knifing doom, that crackled and bit shrilly over the loudspeaker 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 hellborn bat wings? I ask you—do you want to be turned into godless, nightcursed husks, into creatures of eternal damnation?”

“No!” the people erupted, terrorstricken.

“No, save us!”

Robert Neville backed away, bumping into flailinghanded, whitejawed 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 nation 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 worldconsuming 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 blindman 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 outandout 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 selfhatred could have set up a block in their weakened minds causing them be blind to their own abhorred image.

It could make them lonely, soullost 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 halffinished 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, wellmodulated satisfaction.

There were still many things to learn, but not so many as before.

Strangely, life was becoming almost bearable.

I don the robe of hermit without a cry, he thought.

On the phonograph, music played, quiet and unhurried.

Outside, the vampires waited.

PART III: June 1978