With a heavy breath he rose and went back to the bedroom. She was still in the same position. Maybe, he thought, she’s gone back into coma again.
He stood over the bed, staring down at her. Ruth. There was so much about her he wanted to know. And yet he was almost afraid to find out. Because if she were like the others, there was only one course open. And it was better not to know anything about the people you killed.
His hands twitched at his sides, his blue eyes gazed flatly at her. What if it had been a freak occurrence? What if she had snapped out of coma for a little while and gone wandering? It seemed possible. And yet, as far as he knew, daylight was the one thing the germ could not endure. Why wasn’t that enough to convince him she was normal?
Well, there was only one way to make sure.
He bent over and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Wake up,” he said.
She didn’t stir. His mouth tightened and his fingers drew in on her soft shoulder.
Then he noticed the thin golden chain around her throat. Reaching in with rough fingers, he drew it out of the bosom of her dress.
He was looking at the tiny gold cross when she woke up and recoiled into the pillow. She’s not in coma; that was all he thought.
“What are you d-doing?” she asked faintly.
It was harder to distrust her when she spoke. The sound of the human voice was so strange to him that it had a power over him it had never had before.
“I’m—nothing,” he said.
Awkwardly he stepped back and leaned against the wall. He looked at her a moment longer. Then he asked, “Where are you from?”
She lay there looking blankly at him.
“I asked you where you were from,” he said. Again she said nothing. He pushed himself away from the wall with a tight look on his face.
“Ing—Inglewood,” she said hastily.
He looked at her coldly for a moment, then leaned back against the wall.
“I see,” he said. “Did—did you live alone?”
“I was married.”
“Where is your husband?”
Her throat moved. “He’s dead.”
“For how long?”
“Last week.”
“And what did you do after he died?”
“Ran.” She bit into her lower lip. “I ran away.”
“You mean you’ve been wandering all this time?”
“Y-yes.”
He looked at her without a word. Then abruptly he turned and his boots thumped loudly as he walked into the kitchen. Pulling open a cabinet door, he drew down a handful of garlic cloves. He put them on a dish, tore them into pieces, and mashed them to a pulp. The acrid fumes assailed his nostrils.
She was propped up on one elbow when he came back. Without hesitation he pushed the dish almost to her face.
She turned her head away with a faint cry.
“What are you doing?” she asked, and coughed once.
“Why do you turn away?”
“Please—”
“Why do you turn away?”
“It smells!” Her voice broke into a sob. “Don’t! You’re making me sick!”
He pushed the plate still closer to her face. With a gagging sound she backed away and pressed against the wall, her legs drawn up on the bed.
“Stop it! Please!' she begged.
He drew back the dish and watched her body twitching as her stomach convulsed.
“You’re one of them,” he said to her, quietly venomous.
She sat up suddenly and ran past him into the bathroom. The door slammed behind her and he could hear the sound of her terrible retching.
Thin-lipped, he put the dish down on the bedside table. His throat moved as he swallowed.
Infected. It had been a clear sign. He had learned over a year before that garlic was an allergen to any system infected with the vampiris bacillus. When the system was exposed to garlic, the stimulated tissues sensitized the cells, causing an abnormal reaction to any further contact with garlic. That was why putting it into their veins had accomplished little. They had to be exposed to the odor.
He sank down on the bed. And the woman had reacted in the wrong way.
After a moment Robert Neville frowned. If what she had said was true, she’d been wandering around for a week. She would naturally be exhausted and weak, and under those conditions the smell of so much garlic could have made her retch.
His fists thudded down onto the mattress. He still didn’t know, then, not for certain. And, objectively, he knew he had no right to decide on inadequate evidence. It was something he’d learned the hard way, something he knew and believed absolutely.
He was still sitting there when she unlocked the bathroom door and came out. She stood in the hall a moment looking at him, then went into the living room. He rose and followed. When he came into the living room she was sitting on the couch.
“Are you satisfied?” she asked.
“Never mind that,” he said. “You’re on trial, not me.”
She looked up angrily as if she meant to say something. Then her body slumped and she shook her head. He felt a twinge of sympathy for a moment. She looked so helpless, her thin hands resting on her lap. She didn’t seem to care any more about her torn dress. He looked at the slight swelling of her breast.
Her figure was very slim, almost curveless. Not at all like the woman he’d used to envision. Never mind that, he told himself, that doesn’t matter any more.
He sat down in the chair and looked across at her. She didn’t return his gaze.
“Listen to me,” he said then. “I have every reason to suspect you of being infected. Especially now that you’ve reacted in such a way to garlic.”
She said nothing.
“Haven’t you anything to say?” he asked.
She raised her eyes.
“You think I’m one of them,” she said.
“I think you might be.”
“And what about this?” she asked, holding up her cross.
“That means nothing,” he said.
“I’m awake,” she said. “I’m not in a coma.”
He said nothing. It was something he couldn’t argue with, even though it didn’t assuage doubt.
“I’ve been in Inglewood many times,” he said finally, “Why didn’t you hear my car?”
“Inglewood is a big place,” she said.
He looked at her carefully, his fingers tapping on the arm of the chair.
“I’d—like to believe you,” he said.
“Would you?” she asked. Another stomach contraction hit her and she bent over with a gasp, teeth clenched. Robert Neville sat there wondering why he didn’t feel more compassion for her. Emotion was a difficult thing to summon from the dead, though. He had spent it all and felt hollow now, without feeling.
After a moment she looked up. Her eyes were hard.
“I’ve had a weak stomach all my life,” she said. “I saw my husband killed last week. Torn to pieces. Right in
