PART I: January 1976
ON THOSE CLOUDY DAYS, Robert Neville was never sure when sunset came, and sometimes they were in the streets before he could get back.
If he had been more analytical1, he might have calculated the approximate time of their arrival; but he still used the lifetime habit of judging nightfall by the sky, and on cloudy days that method didn't work. That was why he chose to stay near the house on those days.
He walked around the house in the dull gray of afternoon, a cigarette dangling2 from the corner of his mouth, trailing threadlike smoke over his shoulder. He checked each window to see if any of the boards had been loosened. After violent attacks, the planks4 were often split or partially5 pried6 off, and he had to replace them completely; a job he hated. Today only one plank3 was loose. Isn't that amazing? he thought.
In the back yard he checked the hothouse and the water tank. Sometimes the structure around the tank might be weakened or its rain catchers bent7 or broken off. Sometimes they would lob rocks over the high fence around the hothouse, and occasionally they would tear through the overhead net and he'd have to replace panes8.
Both the tank and the hothouse were undamaged today. He went to the house for a hammer and nails. As he pushed open the front door, he looked at the distorted reflection of himself in the cracked mirror he'd fastened to the door a month ago. In a few days, jagged pieces of the silver-backed glass would start to fall off. Let' em fall, he thought. It was the last damned mirror he'd put there; it wasn't worth it. He'd put garlic there instead. Garlic always worked.
He passed slowly through the dim silence of the living room, turned left into the small hallway, and left again into his bedroom.
Once the room had been warmly decorated, but that was in another time. Now it was a room entirely9 functional10, and since Neville's bed and bureau took up so little space, he had converted one side of the room into a shop.
A long bench covered almost an entire wall, on its hardwood top a heavy band saw; a wood lathe11, an emery wheel, and a vise. Above it, on the wall, were haphazard12 racks of the tools that Robert Neville used.
He took a hammer from the bench and picked out a few nails from one of the disordered bins13. Then he went back outside and nailed the plank fast to the shutter14. The unused nails he threw into the rubble15 next door.
For a while he stood on the front lawn looking up and down the silent length of Cimarron Street. He was a tall man, thirty-six, born of English-German stock, his features undistinguished except for the long, determined16 mouth and the bright blue of his eyes, which moved now over the charred17 ruins of the houses on each side of his. He'd burned them down to prevent them from jumping on his roof from the adjacent ones.
After a few minutes he took a long, slow breath and went back into the house. He tossed the hammer on the living-room couch, then lit another cigarette and had his midmorning drink.
Later he forced himself into the kitchen to grind up the five-day accumulation of garbage in the sink. He knew he should burn up the paper plates and utensils18 too, and dust the furniture and wash out the sinks and the bathtub and toilet, and change the sheets and pillowcase on his bed; but he didn't feel like it.
For he was a man and he was alone and these things had no importance to him.
It was almost noon. Robert Neville was in his hothouse collecting a basketful of garlic.
In the beginning it had made him sick to smell garlic in such quantity his stomach had been in a state of constant turmoil19. Now the smell was in his house and in his clothes, and sometimes he thought it was even in his flesh.
He hardly noticed it at all.
When he had enough bulbs, he went back to the house and dumped them on the drainboard of the sink. As he flicked20 the wall switch, the light flickered21, then flared22 into normal brilliance23. A disgusted hiss24 passed his clenched25 teeth. The generator26 was at it again. He'd have to get out that damned manual again and check the wiring. And, if it were too much trouble to repair, he'd have to install a new generator.
Angrily he jerked a high-legged stool to the sink, got a knife, and sat down with an exhausted27 grunt28.
First, he separated the bulbs into the small, sickle-shaped cloves30. Then he cut each pink, leathery clove29 in half, exposing the fleshy center buds. The air thickened with the musky, pungent31 odor. When it got too oppressive, he snapped on the air-conditioning unit and suction drew away the worst of it.
Now he reached over and took an icepick from its wall rack. He punched holes in each clove half, then strung them all together with wire until he had about twenty-five necklaces.
In the beginning he had hung these necklaces over the windows. But from a distance they'd thrown rocks until he'd been forced to cover the broken panes with plywood scraps32. Finally one day he'd torn off the plywood and nailed up even rows of planks instead. It had made the house a gloomy sepulcher33, but it was better than having rocks come flying into his rooms in a shower of splintered glass. And, once he had installed the three air-conditioning units, it wasn't too bad. A man could get used to anything if he had to.
When he was finished stringing the garlic cloves, he went outside and nailed them over the window boarding, taking down the old strings34, which had lost most of their potent35 smell.
He had to go through this process twice a week. Until he found something better, it was his first line of defense36.
Defense? he often thought. For what?
All afternoon he made stakes.
He lathed37 them out of thick doweling, band-sawed into nine-inch lengths. These he held against the whirling emery stone until they were as sharp as daggers38.
It was. tiresome39, monotonous40 work, and it filled the air with hot-smelling wood dust that settled in his pores and got into his lungs and made him cough.
Yet he never seemed to get ahead. No matter how many stakes he made, they were gone in no time at all. Doweling was getting harder to find, too. Eventually he'd have to lathe down rectangular lengths of wood. Won't that be fun? He thought irritably41.
It was all very depressing and it made him resolve to find a better method of disposal. But how could he find it when they never gave him a chance to slow down and think?
As he lathed, he listened to records over the loudspeaker he'd set up in: the bedroom—Beethoven's Third, Seventh, and Ninth symphonies. He was glad he'd learned early in life, from his mother, to appreciate this kind of music. It helped to fill the terrible void of hours.
From four o'clock on, his gaze kept shifting to the clock on the wall. He worked in silence, lips pressed into a hard line, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his eyes Staring at the bit as it gnawed42 away the wood and sent floury dust filtering down to the floor.
Four-fifteen. Four-thirty. It was a quarter to five.
In another hour they'd be at the house again, the filthy43 bastards45. As soon as the light was gone.
He stood before the giant freezer, selecting his supper.
His jaded46 eyes moved over the stacks of meats down to the frozen vegetables, down to the breads and pastries47, the fruits and ice cream.
He picked out two lamb chops, string beans, and a small box of orange sherbet. He picked the boxes from the freezer and pushed shut the door with his elbow.
Next he moved over to the uneven48 stacks of cans piled to the ceiling. He took down a can of tomato juice, then left the room that had once belonged to Kathy and now belonged to his stomach.
He moved slowly across the living room, looking at the mural that covered the back wall. It showed a cliff edge, sheering off to green-blue ocean that surged and broke over black rocks. Far up in the clear blue sky, white sea gulls49 floated on the wind, and over on the right a gnarled tree hung over the precipice50, its dark branches etched against the sky.
Neville walked into the kitchen and dumped the groceries on the table, his eyes moving to the clock. Twenty minutes to six. Soon now.
He poured a little water into a small pan and clanked it down on a stove burner. Next he thawed51 out the chops and put them under the broiler. By this time the water was boiling and he dropped in the frozen string beans and covered them, thinking that it was probably the electric stove that was milking the generator.
At the table he sliced himself two pieces of bread and poured himself a glass of tomato juice. He sat down and looked at the red second hand as it swept slowly around the clock face. The bastards ought to be here soon.
After he'd finished his tomato juice, he walked to the front door and went out onto the porch. He stepped off onto the lawn and walked down to the sidewalk.
The sky was darkening and it was getting chilly52. He looked up and down Cimarron Street, the cool breeze ruffling53 his blond hair. That's what was wrong with these cloudy days; you never knew when they were coming.
Oh, well, at least they were better than those damned dust storms. With a shrug54, he moved back across the lawn and into the house, locking and bolting the door behind him, sliding the thick bar into place. Then he went back into the kitchen, turned his chops, and switched off the heat under the string beans.
He was putting the food on his plate when he stopped and his eyes moved quickly to the clock. Six-twenty-five today. Ben Cortman was shouting.
"Come out, Neville!"
Robert Neville sat down with a sigh and began to eat.
He sat in the living room, trying to read. He'd made himself a whisky and soda55 at his small bar and he held the cold glass as he read a physiology56 text. From the speaker over the hallway door, the music of Schonberg was playing loudly.
Not loudly enough, though. He still heard them outside, their murmuring and their walkings about and their cries, their snarling57 and fighting among themselves. Once in a while a rock or brick thudded off the house. Sometimes a dog barked.
And they were all there for the same thing.
Robert Neville closed his eyes a moment and held his lips in a tight line. Then he opened his eyes and lit another cigarette, letting the smoke go deep into his lungs.
He wished he'd had time to soundproof the house. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't that he had to listen to them. Even after five months, it got on his nerves.
He never looked at them any more. In the beginning he'd made a peephole in the front window and watched them. But then the women bad seen him and had started striking vile58 postures59 in order to entice60 him out of the house. He didn't want to look at that.
He put down his book and stared bleakly61 at the rug, hearing Verkl?rte Nacht play over the loud-speaker. He knew he could put plugs in his ears to shut off the sound of them, but that would shut off the music too, and he didn't want to feel that they were forcing him into a shell.
He closed his eyes again. It was the women who made it so difficult, he thought, the women posing like lewd62 puppets in the night on the possibility that he'd see them and decide to come out.
A shudder63. ran through him. Every night it was the same. He'd be reading and listening to music. Then he'd start to think about soundproofing the house, then he'd think about the women.
Deep in his body, the knotting heat began again, and he pressed his lips together until they were white. He knew the feeling well and it enraged64 him that he couldn't combat it. It grew and grew until he couldn't sit still any more. Then he'd get up and pace the floor, fists bloodless at his sides. Maybe he'd set up the movie projector65 or eat something or have too much to drink or turn the music up so loud it hurt his ears. He had to do something when it got really bad.
He felt the muscles of his abdomen66 closing in like frightening coils. He picked up the book and tried to read, his lips forming each word slowly and painfully.
But in a moment the book was on his lap again. He looked at. the bookcase across from him. All the knowledge in those books couldn't put out the fires in him; all the words of centuries couldn't end the wordless, mindless craving67 of his flesh.
The realization68 made him sick. It was an insult to a man. All right, it was a natural drive, but there was no outlet69 for it any more. They'd forced celibacy70 on him; he'd have to live with it. You have a mind, don't you? he asked himself. Well, use it?
He reached over and turned the music still louder; then forced himself to read a whole page without pause. He read about blood cells being forced through membranes71, about pale lymph carrying the wastes through tubes blocked by lymph nodes, about lymphocytes and phago-cytic cells.
"...to empty, in the left shoulder region, near the thorax, into a large vein72 of the blood circulating system."
The book shut with a thud.
Why didn't they leave him alone? Did they think they could all have him? Were they so stupid they thought that? Why did they keep coming every night? After five months, you'd think they'd give up and try elsewhere.
He went over to the bar and made himself another drink. As he turned back to his chair he heard stones rattling73 down across the roof and landing with thuds in the shrubbery beside the house. Above the noises, he heard Ben Cortman shout as he always shouted.
"Come out, Neville!"
Someday I'll get that bastard44, he thought as he took a big swallow of the bitter drink. Someday I'll knock a stake right through his goddamn chest. I'll make one a foot long for him, a special one with ribbons on it, the bastard.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd soundproof the house. His fingers drew into white-knuckled fists. He couldn't stand thinking about those women. If he didn't hear them, maybe he wouldn't think about them. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
The music ended and he took a stack of records off the turntable and slid them back into their cardboard envelopes. Now he could hear them even more clearly outside. He reached for the first new record he could get and put it on the turntable and twisted the volume up to its highest point.
"The Year of the Plague," by Roger Leie, filled his ears. Violins scraped and whined74, tympani thudded like the beats of a dying heart, flutes75 played weird76, atonal77 melodies.
With a stiffening78 of rage, he wrenched79 up the record and snapped it over his right knee. He'd meant to break it long ago. He walked on rigid80 legs to the kitchen and flung the pieces into the trash box. Then he stood in the dark kitchen, eyes tightly shut, teeth clenched, hands damped over his ears. Leave me alone,, leave me alone, leave me alone!
No use, you couldn't beat them at night. No use trying; it was their special time. He was acting81 very stupidly, trying to beat them. Should he watch a movie? No, he didn't feel like setting up the projector. He'd go to bed and put the plugs in his ears. It was what he ended up doing every night, anyway.
Quickly, trying not to think at all; he went to the bedroom and undressed. He put on pajama bottoms and went into the bathroom. He never wore pajama tops; it was a habit he'd acquired in Panama during the war.
As he washed, he looked into the mirror at his broad chest, at the dark hair swirling82 around the nipples and down the center line of his chest. He looked at the ornate cross he'd had tattooed83 on his chest one night in Panama when he'd been drunk. What a fool I was in those days! he thought. Well, maybe that cross had saved his life.
He brushed his teeth carefully and used dental-floss. He tried to take good care of his teeth because he was his own dentist now. Some things could go to pot, but not his health, he thought. Then why don't you stop pouring alcohol into yourself? he thought. Why don't you shut the hell up? he thought.
Now he went through the house, turning out lights. For a few minutes he looked at the mural and tried to believe it was really the ocean. But how could he believe it with all the bumpings and the scrapings, the howlings and snarlings and cries in the night?
He turned off the living-room lamp and went into the bedroom.
He made a sound of disgust when he saw that sawdust covered the bed. He brushed it off with snapping hand strokes, thinking that he'd better build a partition between the shop and the sleeping portion of the room. Better do this and better do that, he thought morosely84. There were so many damned things to do, he'd never get to the real problem.
He jammed in his earplugs and a great silence engulfed85 him. He turned off the light and crawled in between the sheets. He looked at the radium-faced clock and saw that it was only a few minutes past ten. Just as well, he thought. This way I'll get an early start.
He lay there on the bed and took deep breaths of the darkness, hoping for sleep. But the silence didn't really help. He could still see them out there, the white-faced men prowling around his house, looking ceaselessly for a way to get in at him. Some of them, probably, crouching86 on their haunches like dogs, eyes glittering at the house, teeth slowly grating together, back and forth87, back and forth.
And the women ...
Did he have to start thinking about them again? He tossed over on his stomach with a curse and pressed his face into the hot pillow. He lay there, breathing heavily, body writhing88 slightly on the sheet. Let the morning come. His mind spoke89 the words it spoke every night Dear God, let the morning come.
He dreamed about Virginia and he cried out in his sleep and his fingers gripped the sheets like frenzied90 talons91.
收听单词发音 |
1
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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functional
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| adj.为实用而设计的，具备功能的，起作用的 | |
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lathe
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| n.车床，陶器，镟床 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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generator
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| n.发电机，发生器 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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cloves
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| n.丁香（热带树木的干花，形似小钉子，用作调味品，尤用作甜食的香料）( clove的名词复数 )；蒜瓣(a garlic ~|a ~of garlic) | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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sepulcher
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| n.坟墓 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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lathed
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| 车床( lathe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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46
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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pastries
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| n.面粉制的糕点 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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51
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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52
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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58
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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bleakly
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| 无望地，阴郁地，苍凉地 | |
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lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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projector
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| n.投影机，放映机，幻灯机 | |
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abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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71
membranes
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| n.（动物或植物体内的）薄膜( membrane的名词复数 )；隔膜；（可起防水、防风等作用的）膜状物 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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atonal
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| adj.无调的 | |
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stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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