She couldn’t run as fast as he could. Almost immediately Neville began catching up with her. She glanced back over her shoulder with terrified eyes.
“I won’t hurt you!” he cried, but she kept running.
Suddenly she tripped and went crashing down on one knee. Her face turned again and he saw the twisted fright on it.
“I won’t hurt you!” he yelled again.
With a desperate lunge she regained her footing and ran on.
No sound now but the sound of her shoes and his boots thrashing through the heavy grass. He began jumping over the grass to avoid its impending height and gained more ground. The skirt of her dress whipped against the grass, holding her back.
“Stop!” he cried, again, but more from instinct than with any hope that she would stop.
She didn’t. She ran still faster and, gritting his teeth, Neville put another burst of speed into his pursuit. He followed in a straight line as the girl weaved across the field, her light reddish hair billowing behind her.
Now he was so close he could hear her tortured breathing. He didn’t like to frighten her, but he couldn’t stop now. Everything else in the world seemed to have fallen from view but her. He had to catch her.
His long, powerful legs pistoned on, his boots thudded on the earth.
Another stretch of field. The two of them ran, panting. She glanced back at him again to see how close he was. He didn’t realize how frightening he looked; six foot three in his boots, a gigantic bearded man with an intent look.
Now his hand lurched out and he caught her by the right shoulder.
With a gasping scream the young woman twisted away and stumbled to the side. Losing balance, she fell on one hip on the rocky ground. Neville jumped forward to help her up. She scuttled back over the ground and tried to get up, but she slipped and fell again, this time on her back. Her skirt jerked up over her knees. She shoved herself up with a breathless whimper, her dark eyes terrified.
“Here,” he gasped, reaching out his hand.
She slapped it aside with a slight cry and struggled to her feet. He caught her by the arm and her free hand lashed out, raking jagged nails across his forehead and right temple. With a grunt he jerked back his arm and she whirled and began running again.
Neville jumped forward again and caught her by the shoulders.
“What are you afraid—”
He couldn’t finish. Her hand drove stingingly across his mouth. Then there was only the sound of gasping and struggling, of their feet scrabbling and slipping on the earth, crackling down the thick grass.
“Will you stop!” he cried, but she kept battling.
She jerked back and his taut fingers ripped away part of her dress. He let go and the material fluttered down to her waist. He saw her tanned shoulder and the white brassiere cup over her left breast.
She clawed out at him and he caught her wrists in an iron grip. Her right foot drove a bone-numbing kick to his skin.
“Damn it!”
With a snarl of rage he drove his right palm across her face. She staggered back, then looked at him dizzily. Abruptly she started crying helplessly. She sank to her knees before him, holding her arms over her head as if to ward off further blows.
Neville stood there gasping, looking down at her cringing form. He blinked, then took a deep breath.
“Get up,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She didn’t raise her head. He looked down confusedly at her. He didn’t know what to say.
“I said I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her again.
She looked up. But his face seemed to frighten her again, for she shrank back. She crouched there looking up at him fearfully.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
He didn’t realize that his voice was devoid of warmth, that it was the harsh, sterile voice of a man who had lost all touch with humanity.
He took a step toward her and she drew back again with a frightened gasp. He extended his hand.
“Here,” he said. “Stand up.”
She got up slowly but without his help. Noticing suddenly her exposed breast, she reached down and held up the torn material of her dress.
They stood there breathing harshly and looking at each other. And, now that the first shock had passed, Neville didn’t know what to say. He’d been dreaming of this moment for years. His dreams had never been like this.
“What… what’s your name?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed on his face, her lips kept trembling.
“Well?” he asked loudly, and she flinched.
“R-Ruth.” Her voice faltered.
A shudder ran through Robert Neville’s body. The sound of her voice seemed to loosen everything in him.
Questions disappeared. He felt his heart beating heavily. He almost felt as if he were going to cry.
His hand moved out, almost unconsciously. Her shoulder trembled under his palm.
“Ruth,” he said in a flat, lifeless voice.
His throat moved as he stared at her.
“Ruth,” he said again.
The two of them, the man and the woman, stood facing each other in the great, hot field.
Chapter Sixteen
The woman lay motionless on his bed, sleeping. It was past four in the afternoon. At least twenty times Neville had stolen into the bedroom to look at her and see if she were awake. Now he sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and worrying.
What if she is infected, though? he argued with himself. The worry had started a few hours before, while Ruth was sleeping. Now, he couldn’t rid himself of the fear. No matter how he reasoned, it didn’t help. All right, she was tanned from the sun, she had been walking in the daylight. The dog had been in the daylight too.
Neville’s fingers tapped restlessly on the table.
Simplicity had departed; the dream had faded into disturbing complexity. There had been no wondrous embrace, no magic words spoken. Beyond her name he had got nothing from her. Getting her to the house had been a battle. Getting her to enter had been even worse. She had cried and begged him not to kill her. No matter what he said to her, she kept crying and begging. He had visualized something on the order of a Hollywood production; stars in their eyes, entering the house, arms about each other, fade-out. Instead he had been forced to tug and cajole and argue and scold while she held back. The entrance had been less than romantic. He had to drag her in.
Once in the house, she had been no less frightened. He’d tried to act comfortingly, but all she did was cower in one corner the way the dog had done. She wouldn’t eat or drink anything he gave her. Finally he’d been compelled to take her in the bedroom and lock her in. Now she was asleep.
He sighed wearily and fingered the handle of his cup. All these years, he thought, dreaming about a companion. Now I meet one and the first thing I do is distrust her, treat her crudely and impatiently.
And yet there was really nothing else he could do. He had accepted too long the proposition that he was the only normal person left. It didn’t matter that she looked normal. He’d seen too many of them lying in their coma that looked as healthy as she. They weren’t, though, and he knew it. The simple fact that she had been walking in the sunlight wasn’t enough to tip the scales on the side of trusting acceptance. He had doubted too long. His concept of the society had become ironbound. It was almost impossible for him to believe that there were others like him. And, after the first shock had diminished, all the dogma of his long years alone had asserted itself.
