“Lets air in. Of course. Lets it in and keeps the flesh open so that the body glue can’t function. So the heart has nothing to do with it. What I do now is cut the wrists deep enough so that the body glue can’t work.” He smiled a little. “When I think of all the time I used to spend making stakes!”
She nodded and, noticing the wineglass in her hand, put it down.
“That’s why the woman I told you about broke down so rapidly,” he said. “She’d been dead so long that as soon as air struck her system the germs caused spontaneous dissolution.”
Her throat moved and a shudder ran down through her.
“It’s horrible,” she said.
He looked at her in surprise. Horrible? Wasn’t that odd? He hadn’t thought that for years. For him the word ‘horror’ had become obsolete. A surfeiting of terror soon made terror a cliche. To Robert Neville the situation merely existed as natural fact. It had no adjectives.
“And what about the — the ones who are still alive?” she asked.
“Well,” he said, “when you cut their wrists the germ naturally becomes parasitic. But mostly they die from simple hemorrhage.”
“Simple–”
She turned away quickly and her lips were pressed into a tight, thin line.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“N–nothing. Nothing,” she said.
He smiled. “One gets used to these things,” he said. “One has to.”
Again she shuddered, the smooth column of her throat contracting.
“You can’t abide by Robert’s Rules of Order in the jungle,” he said. “Believe me, it’s the only thing I can do. Is it better to let them die of the disease and return — in a far more terrible way?”
She pressed her hands together.
“But you said a lot of them are — are still living,” she said nervously. “How do you know they’re not going to stay alive?”
“I know,” he said. “I know the germ, know how it multiplies. No matter how long their systems fight it, in the end the germ will win. I’ve made antibiotics, injected dozens of them. But it doesn’t work, it can’t work. You can’t make vaccines work when they’re already deep in the disease. Their bodies can’t fight germs and make antibodies at the same time. It can’t be done, believe me. It’s a trap. If I didn’t kill them, sooner or later they’d die and come after me. I have no choice; no choice at all.”
They were silent then and the only sound in the room was the rasping of the needle on the inner grooves of the record. She wouldn’t look at him, but kept staring at the floor with bleak eyes. It was strange, he thought, to find himself vaguely on the defensive for what yesterday was accepted necessity. In the years that had passed he had never once considered the possibility that he was wrong. It took her presence to bring about such thoughts: And they were strange, alien thoughts.
“Do you actually think I’m wrong?” he asked in an incredulous voice.
She bit into her lower lip.
“Ruth,” he said.
“It’s not for me to say,” she answered.
“Virge!”
The dark form recoiled against the wall as Robert Neville’s hoarse cry ripped open the silent blackness.
He jerked his body up from the couch and stared with sleep-clouded eyes across the room, his chest pulsing with heartbeats like maniac fists on a dungeon wall.
He lurched up to his feet, brain still foggy with sleep; unable to define time or place.
“Virge?” he said again, weakly, shakily. “Virge?’
“It — it’s me,” the faltering voice said in the darkness. He took a trembling step toward the thin stream of light spearing through the open peephole. He blinked dully at the light.
She gasped as he put his hand out and clutched her shoulder.
“It’s Ruth. Ruth,” she said in a terrified whisper. He stood there rocking slowly in the darkness, eyes gazing without comprehension at the dark form before him.
“It’s Ruth,” she said again, more loudly. Waking came like a hose blast of numbing shock. Something twisted cold knots into his chest and stomach. It wasn’t Virge. He shook his head suddenly, rubbed shaking fingers across his eyes.
Then he stood there staring, weighted beneath a sudden depression.
“Oh,” he muttered faintly. “Oh, I–”
He remained there, feeling his body weaving slowly in the dark as the mists cleared from his brain.
He looked at the open peephole, then back at her.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice still thick with sleep.
“Nothing,” she said nervously. “I — couldn’t sleep.”
He blinked his eyes suddenly at the flaring lamplight. Then his hands dropped down from the lamp switch and he turned around. She was against the wall still, blinking at the light, her hands at her sides drawn into tight fists.
“Why are you dressed?” he asked in a surprised voice. Her throat moved and she stared at him. He rubbed his eyes again and pushed back the long hair from his temples.
“I was — just looking out,” she said.
“But why are you dressed?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
