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 car 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 right 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 high-weeded 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 filled-in 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 room, 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.
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 second-floor 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, gray-stoned 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.