I Am Legend

He’d never got used to the dust storms. That hissing sound of whirlwind granulation always set his teeth on edge. The storms had never come regularly enough to allow him to adapt himself to them. Whenever they came, he spent a restless, tossing night, and went to the plant the next day with jaded mind and body.

Now there was Virginia to worry about too.

About four o’clock he awoke from a thin depression of sleep and realized that the storm had ended. The contrast made silence a rushing noise in his ears.

As he raised his body irritably to adjust his twisted pajamas, he noticed that Virginia was awake. She was lying on her back and staring at the ceiling.

“What’s the matter?” he mumbled drowsily.

She didn’t answer.

“Honey?”

Her eyes moved slowly to him.

“Nothing,” she said. “Go to sleep.”

“How do you feel?”

“The same.”

“Oh.”

He lay there for a moment looking at her.

“Well,” he said then and, turning on his side, closed his eyes.

The alarm went off at six-thirty. Usually Virginia pushed in the stop, but when she failed to do so, he reached over her inert body and did it himself. She was still on her back, still staring.

“What is it?” he asked worriedly.

She looked at him and shook her head on the pillow.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just can’t sleep.”

“Why?"

She made an indecisive sound.

“Still feel weak?” he asked.

She tried to sit up but she couldn’t.

“Stay there, hon,” he said. “Don’t move.” He put his hand on her brow. “You haven’t got any fever,” he told her.

“I don’t feel sick,” she said. “Just . . tired.”

“You look pale.”

“I know. I look like a ghost.”

“Don’t get up,” he said.

She was up.

“I’m not going to pamper myself,” she said. “Go ahead, get dressed. I’ll be all right.”

“Don’t get up if you don’t feel good, honey.”

She patted his arm and smiled.

“I’ll be all right,” she said. “You get ready.”

While he shaved he heard the shuffling of her slippers past the bathroom door. He opened the door and watched her crossing the living room very slowly, her wrappered body weaving a little. He went back in the bathroom shaking his head. She should have stayed in bed.

The whole top of the washbasin was grimy with dust. The damn stuff was everywhere. He’d finally been compelled to erect a tent over Kathy’s bed to keep the dust from her face. He’d nailed one edge of a shelter half to the wall next to her bed and let it slope over the bed, the other edge held up by two poles lashed to the side of the bed.

He didn’t get a good shave because there was grit in the shaving soap and he didn’t have time for a second lathering. He washed off his face, got a clean towel from the hall closet, and dried himself.

Before going to the bedroom to get dressed he checked Kathy’s room.

She was still asleep, her small blonde head motionless on the pillow, her cheeks pink with heavy sleep. He ran a finger across the top of the shelter half and drew it away gray with dust. With a disgusted shake of his head he left the room.

“I wish these damn storms would end,” he said as he entered the kitchen ten minutes later. “I’m sure...”

He stopped talking. Usually she was at the stove turning eggs or French toast or pancakes, making coffee. Today she was sitting at the table. On the stove coffee was percolating, but nothing else was cooking.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t feel well, go back to bed,” he told her. “I can fix my own breakfast.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I was just resting. I’m sorry. I’ll get up and fry you some eggs.”

“Stay there,” he said. “I’m not helpless.”

He went to the refrigerator and opened the door.

“I’d like to know what this is going around,” she said. “Half the people on the block have it, and you say that more than half the plant is absent.”

“Maybe it’s some kind of virus,” he said.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Between the storms and the mosquitoes and everyone being sick, life is rapidly becoming a pain,” he said, pouring orange juice out of the bottle. “And speak of the devil.”

He drew a black speck out of the orange juice in the glass.

“How the hell they get in the refrigerator I’ll never know,” he said.

“None for me, Bob,” she said.

“No orange juice?”

“No.”

“Good for you.”

“No, thank you, sweetheart,” she said, trying to smile.

He put back the bottle and sat down across from her with his glass of juice.

“You don’t feel any pain?" he said. "No headache, nothing?”

She shook her head slowly.

“I wish I did know what was wrong,” she said.

“You call up Dr. Busch today.”

“I will,” she said, starting to get up. He put his hand over hers.

“No, no, sweetheart, stay there,” he said.

“But there’s no reason why I should be like this.” She sounded angry. That was the way she’d been as long as he’d known her. If she became ill, it irritated her. She was annoyed by sickness. She seemed to regard it as a personal affront.

“Come on,” he said, starting to get up. “I’ll help you back to bed.”

“No, just let me sit here with you,” she said. “I’ll go back to bed after Kathy goes to school.”

“All right. Don’t you want something, though?”

“No.”

“How about coffee?”

She shook her head.