Garlic kept them away and blood was the fulcrum of their existence. Yet, mix the essence of garlic with the blood and nothing happened. His hands closed into angry fists.
Wait a minute; that blood was from one of the living ones.
An hour later he had a sample of the other kind. He mixed it with allyl sulphide and looked at it through the microscope. Nothing happened.
Lunch stuck in his throat.
What about the stake, then? All he could think of was hemorrhage, and he knew it wasn’t that. That damned woman.
He tried half the afternoon to think of something concrete. Finally, with a snarl, he knocked the microscope over and stalked into the living room. He thudded down onto the chair and sat there, tapping impatient fingers on the arm.
Brilliant, Neville, he thought. You’re uncanny. Go to the head of the class. He sat there, biting a knuckle. Let’s face it, he thought miserably, I lost my mind a long time ago. I can’t think two days in succession without having seams come loose. I’m useless, worthless, without value, a dud.
All right, he replied with a shrug, that settles it. Let’s get back to the problem. So he did.
There are certain things established, he lectured himself. There is a germ, it’s transmitted, sunlight kills it, garlic is effective. Some vampires sleep in soil, the stake destroys them. They don’t turn into wolves or bats, but certain animals acquire the germ and become vampires.
All right.
He made a list. One column he headed “Bacilli,” the other he headed with a question mark.
He began.
The cross. No, that couldn’t have anything to do with the bacilli. If anything, it was psychological.
The soil. Could there be something in the soil that affected the germ? No. How would it get in the blood stream? Besides, very few of them slept in the soil.
His throat moved as he added the second item to the column headed by a question mark.
Running water. Could it be absorbed porously and…
No, that was stupid. They came out in the rain, and they wouldn’t if it harmed them. Another notation in the right-hand column. His hand shook a little as he entered it.
Sunlight. He tried vainly to glean satisfaction from putting down one item in the desired column.
The stake. No. His throat moved. Watch it, he warned. The mirror. For God’s sake, how could a mirror have anything to do with germs? His hasty scrawl in the right-hand column was hardly legible. His hand shook a little more.
Garlic. He sat there, teeth gritted. He had to add at least one more item to the bacilli column; it was almost a point of honor. He struggled over the last item. Garlic, garlic. It must affect the germ. But how?
He started to write in the right-hand column, but before he could finish, fury came from far down like lava shooting up to the crest of a volcano.
Damn!
He crumpled the paper into a ball in his fist and hurled it away. He stood up, rigid and frenzied, looking around. He wanted to break things, anything. So you thought your frenzied period was over, did you! he yelled at himself, lurching forward to fling over the bar.
Then he caught himself and held back. No, no, don’t get started, he begged. Two shaking hands ran through his lank blond hair. His throat moved convulsively and he shuddered with the repressed craving for violence.
The sound of the whisky gurgling into the glass angered him. He turned the bottle upside down and the whisky spurted out in great gushes, splashing up the sides of the glass and over onto the mahogany top of the bar.
He swallowed the whole glassful at once, head thrown back, whisky running out the edges of his mouth.
I’m an animal! he exulted. I’m a dumb, stupid animal and I’m going to drink!
He emptied the glass, then flung it across the room. It bounced off the bookcase and rolled across the rug. Oh, so you won’t break, won’t you! he rasped inside his head, leaping across the rug to grind the glass into splinters under his heavy shoes.
Then he spun and stumbled to the bar again. He filled another glass and poured the contents down his throat. I wish I had a pipe with whisky in it! he thought. I’d connect a goddamn hose to it and flush whisky down me until it came out my ears! Until I floated in it!
He flung away the glass. Too slow, too slow, damn it! He drank directly from the uptilted bottle, gulping furiously, hating himself, punishing himself with the whisky burning down his rapidly swallowing throat.
I’ll choke myself! he stormed. I’ll strangle myself, I’ll drown myself in whisky! Like Clarence in his malmsey, I’ll die, die, die!
He hurled the empty bottle across the room and it shattered on the wall mural. Whisky ran down the tree trunks and onto the ground. He lurched across the room and picked up a piece of the broken bottle. He slashed at the mural and the jagged edge sliced through the scene and peeled it away from the wall. There! he thought, his breath like steam escaping. That for you!
He flung the glass away, then looked down as he felt dull pain in his fingers. He’d sliced open the flesh.
Good! he exulted viciously, and pressed on each side of the slices until the blood ran out and fell in big drops on the rug. Bleed to death, you stupid, worthless bastard!
An hour later he was totally drunk, lying flat on the floor with a vacuous smile on his face.
World’s gone to hell. No germs, no science. World’s fallen to the supernatural, it’s a supernatural world. Harper’s Bizarre and Saturday Evening Ghost and Ghoul Housekeeping. ‘Young Dr. Jekyll’ and ‘Dracula’s Other Wife’ and ‘Death Can Be Beautiful’. ‘Don’t Be Half-Staked’ and Smith Brothers’ Coffin Drops.
He stayed drunk for two days and planned on staying drunk till the end of time or the world’s whisky supply, whichever came first.
And he might have done it, too, if it hadn’t been for a miracle.
It happened on the third morning, when he stumbled out onto the porch to see if the world was still there.
There was a dog roving about on the lawn.
The second it heard him open the front door, it stopped snuffling over the grass, its head jerked up in sudden fright, and it bounded off to the side with a twitch of scrawny limbs.
For a moment Robert Neville was so shocked he couldn’t move. He stood petrified, staring at the dog, which was limping quickly across the street, its ropelike tail pulled between its legs.
It was alive! In the daytime! He lurched forward with a dull cry and almost pitched on his face on the lawn. His legs pistoned, his arms flailed for balance. Then he caught himself and started running after the dog.
“Hey!” he called, his hoarse voice breaking the silence of Cimarron Street. “Come back here!”
His shoes thudded across the sidewalk and off the curb, every step driving a battering ram into his head. His heart pulsed heavily.
“Hey!” he called again. “Come ’ere, boy.”
Across the street, the dog scrambled unsteadily along the sidewalk, its right hind leg curled up, its dark claws clicking on the cement.
“Come ’ere, boy, I won’t hurt you!” Robert Neville called out.
Already he had a stitch in his side and his head throbbed with pain as he ran. The dog stopped a moment and looked back. Then it darted in between two houses, and for a moment Neville saw it from the side. It was brown and white, breedless, its left ear hanging in shreds, its gaunt body wobbling as it ran.
“Don’t run away!”
He didn’t hear the shrill quiver of hysteria in his voice as he screamed out the words. His throat choked up as the dog disappeared between the houses. With a grunt of fear he hobbled on faster, ignoring the pain of hangover, everything lost in the need to catch that dog.
But when he got into the back yard the dog was gone.
He ran to the redwood fence and looked over. Nothing. He twisted back suddenly to see if the dog were going back out the way it had entered.
There was no dog.
