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 front of my eyes I saw it. I lost two children to the plague. And for the past week I've been wandering all over. Hiding at night, not eating more than a few scraps of food. Sick with fear, unable to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time. Then I hear someone shout at me. You chase me over a field, hit me, drag me to your house. Then when I get sick because you shove a plate of reeking garlic in my face, you tell me I'm infected!"
Her hands twitched in her lap. "What do you expect to happen?" she said angrily.
She slumped back against the couch back and closed her eyes. Her hands picked nervously at her skirt. For a moment she tried to tuck in the torn piece, but it fell down again and she sobbed angrily.
He leaned forward in the chair. He was beginning to feel guilty now, in spite of suspicions and doubts. He couldn't help it. He had forgotten about sobbing women. He raised a hand slowly to his beard and plucked confusedly as he watched her.
"Would... " he started. He swallowed. "Would you let me take a sample of your blood?" he asked. "I could--"
She stood up suddenly and stumbled toward the door.
He got up quickly.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
She didn't answer. Her hands fumbled, awkwardly with the lock.
"You can't go out there," he said, surprised. "The street will be full of them in a little while."
"I'm not staying here," she sobbed. "What's the difference if they kill me?"
His hands closed over her arm. She tried to pull away. "Leave me alone!" she cried. "I didn't ask to come here. You dragged me here. Why don't you leave me alone?"
He stood by her awkwardly, not knowing what to say.
"You can't go out," he said again.
He led her back to the couch. Then he went and got her a small tumbler of whisky at the bar. Never mind whether she's infected or not, he thought, never mind.
He handed her the tumbler. She shook her head.
"Drink it," he said. "It'll calm you down."
She looked up angrily. "So you can shove more garlic in my face?"
He shook his head.
"Drink it now," he said.
After a few moments she took the glass and took a sip of the whisky. It made her cough. She put the tumbler on the arm of the couch and a deep breath shook her body.
"Why do you want me to stay?" she asked unhappily.
He looked at her without a definite answer in his mind. Then he said, "Even if you are infected, I can't let you go out there. You don't know what they'd do to you."
Her eyes closed. "I don't care," she said.
Chapter Seventeen
"I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT," he told her over supper. "Almost three years now, and still there are some of them alive. Food supplies are 'being used up. As far as I know, they still lie in a coma during the day." He shook his head. "But they're not dead. Three years and they're not dead. What keeps them going?"
She was wearing his bathrobe. About five she had relented, taken a bath, and changed. Her slender body was shapeless in the voluminous terry-cloth folds. She'd borrowed his comb and drawn her hair back into a pony tail fastened with a piece of twine.
Ruth fingered her coffee cup.
"We used to see them sometimes," she said. "We were afraid to go near them, though. We didn't think we should touch them."
"Didn't you know they'd come back after they died?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Didn't you wonder about the people who attacked your house at night?"
"It never entered our minds that they were--" She shook her head slowly. "It's hard to believe something like that."
"I suppose," he said.
He glanced at her as they sat eating silently. It was hard too to believe that here was a normal woman. Hard to believe that, after all these years, a companion had come. It was more than just doubting her. It was doubting that anything so remarkable could happen in such a lost world.
"Tell me more about them," Ruth said.
He got up and took the coffeepot off the stove. He poured more into her cup, into his, then replaced the pot and sat down.
"How do you feel now?" he asked her.
"I feel better, thank you."
He nodded and spooned sugar into his coffee. He felt her eyes on him as he stirred. What's she thinking? he wondered. He took a deep breath, wondering why the tightness in him didn't break. For a while he'd thought that he trusted her. Now he wasn't sure.
"You still don't trust me," she said, seeming to read his mind.
He looked up quickly, then shrugged.
"It's--not that," he said.
Then again, she might not have. What was the point in doubting her now? She was going to let him check her blood. What else could she do? It's me, he thought. I've been by myself too long. I won't believe anything unless I see it in a microscope. Heredity triumphs again. I'm my father's son, damn his moldering bones.
Standing in the dark kitchen, digging his blunt nail under the wrapping around the neck of the bottle, Robert Neville looked into the living room at Ruth.
His eyes ran over the robe, resting a moment on the slight prominence of her br**sts, dropping then to the bronzed calves and ankles, up to the smooth kneecaps. She had a body like a young girl's. She certainly didn't look like the mother of two.
The most unusual feature of the entire affair, he thought, was that he felt no physical desire for her.
If she had come two years before, maybe even later, he might have violated her. There had been some terrible moments in those days, moments when the most terrible of solutions to his need were considered, were often dwelt upon until they drove him half mad.