Well, I will know! he raged inside. And he forced himself to study.
Certain kinds of bacilli, when conditions became unfavorable for life, were capable of creating, from themselves, bodies called spores. What they did was condense their cell contents into an oval body with a thick wall. This body, when completed, detached itself from the bacillus and became a free spore, highly resistant to physical and chemical change. Later, when conditions were more favorable for survival, the spore germinated again, bringing into existence all the qualities of the original bacillus.
Robert Neville stood before the sink, eyes closed, hands clasped tightly at the edge. Something there, he told himself forcefully, something there. But what?
Suppose, he predicated, the vampire got no blood. Conditions then for the vampiris bacillus would be unfavorable.
Protecting itself, the germ sporulates; the vampire sinks into a coma. Finally, when conditions become favorable again, the vampire walks again, its body still the same.
But how would the germ know if blood were available? He slammed a fist on the sink in anger. He read again. There was still something there. He felt it.
Bacteria, when not properly fed, metabolized abnormally and produced bacteriophages (inanimate, selfreproducing proteins). These bacteriophages destroyed the bacteria.
When no blood came in, the bacilli would metabolize abnormally, absorb water, and swell up, ultimately to explode and destroy all cells.
Sporulation again; it had to fit in.
All right, suppose the vampire didn’t go into a coma. Suppose its body decomposed without blood. The germ still might sporulate and — Yes! The dust storms!
The freed spores would be blown about by the storms. They could lodge in minute skin abrasions caused by the scaling dust. Once in the skin, the spore could germinate and multiply by fission. As this multiplication progressed, the surrounding tissues would be destroyed, the channels plugged with bacilli. Destruction of tissue cells and bacilli would liberate poisonous, decomposed bodies into surrounding healthy tissues. Eventually the poisons would reach the blood stream.
Process complete.
And all without blood-eyed vampires hovering over heroines’ beds. All without bats fluttering against estate windows, all without the supernatural.
The vampire was real. It was only that his true story had never been told.
Considering that, Neville recounted the historical plagues.
He thought about the fall of Athens. That had been very much like the plague of 1975. Before anything could be done, the city had fallen. Historians wrote of bubonic plague. Robert Neville was inclined to believe that the vampire had caused it.
No, not the vampire. For now, it appeared, that prowling, vulpine ghost was as much a tool of the germ as the living innocents who were originally afflicted. It was the germ that was the villain. The germ that hid behind obscuring veils of legend and superstition, spreading its scourge while people cringed before their own fears.
And what of the Black Plague, that horrible blight that swept across Europe, leaving in its wake a toll of three fourths of the population?
Vampires?
By ten that night, his head ached and his eyes felt like hot blobs of gelatin. He discovered that he was ravenous. He got a steak from the freezer, and while it was broiling he took a fast shower.
He jumped a little when a rock hit the side of the house. Then he grinned wryly. He’d been so absorbed all day that he’d forgotten about the pack of them that prowled around his house.
While he was drying himself, he suddenly realized that he didn’t know what portion of the vampires who came nightly were physically alive and what portion were activated entirely by the germ. Odd, he thought, that he didn’t know. There had to be both kinds, because some of them he shot without success, while others had been destroyed. He assumed that the dead ones could somehow withstand bullets.
Which brought up another point. Why did the living ones come to his house? Why just those few and not everyone in that area?
He had a glass of wine with his steak and was amazed how flavorsome everything was. Food usually tasted like wood to him. I must have worked up an appetite today, he thought.
Furthermore, he hadn’t had a single drink. Even more fantastic, he hadn’t wanted one. He shook his head. It was painfully obvious that liquor was an emotional solace to him.
The steak he finished to the bone, and he even chewed on that. Then he took the rest of the wine into the living room, turned on the record player, and sat down in his chair with a tired grunt.
He sat listening to Ravel’s Daphnis and Chloe Suites One and Two, all the lights off except the spotlight on the woods. He managed to forget all about vampires for a while.
Later, though, he couldn’t resist taking another look in the microscope.
You bastard, he thought, almost affectionately, watching the minuscule protoplasm fluttering on the slide.
You dirty little bastard.
The next day stank.
The sun lamp killed the germs on the slide, but that didn’t explain anything to him.
He mixed allyl sulphide with the germ-ridden blood and nothing happened. The allyl sulphide was absorbed, the germs still lived.
He paced nervously around the bedroom.
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?