Читаем I Am Legend полностью

“No,” he groaned. “No!”

Then pain surged up from his chest and drove a barbed club into his brain. Everything began spinning away into blackness.

“Virge,” he muttered in a hoarse whisper.

And the dark men dragged his lifeless body from the house. Into the night. Into the world that was theirs and no longer his.

Chapter Twenty-One

Sound; a murmured rustle in the air. Robert Neville coughed weakly, then grimaced as the pain filled his chest. A bubbling groan passed his lips and his head rolled slightly on the flat pillow. The sound grew stronger, it became a rumbling mixture of noises. His hands drew in slowly at his sides. Why didn’t they take the fire off his chest? He could feel hot coals dropping through openings in his flesh. Another groan, agonized and breathless, twitched his graying lips. Then his eyes fluttered open.

He stared at the rough plaster ceiling for a full minute without blinking. Pain ebbed and swelled in his chest with an endless, nerve-clutching throb. His face remained a taut, lined mask of resistance to the pain. If he relaxed for a second, it enveloped him completely; he had to fight it. For the first few minutes he could only struggle with the pain, suffering beneath its hot stabbing. Then, after a while, his brain began to function; slowly, like a machine faltering, starting and stopping, turning and jamming gears.

Where am I? It was his first thought. The pain was awful. He looked down at his chest and saw that it was bound with a wide bandage, a great, moist spot of red rising and falling jerkily in the middle of it. He closed his eyes and swallowed. I’m hurt, he thought. I’m hurt badly. His mouth and throat felt powdery dry. Where am I, what am I–

Then he remembered; the dark men and the attack on his house. And he knew where he was even before he turned his head slowly, achingly, and saw the barred windows across the tiny cubicle. He looked at the windows for a long time, face tight, teeth clenched together. The sound was outside; the rushing, confused sound.

He let his head roll back on the pillow and lay staring at the ceiling. It was hard to understand the moment on its own terms. Hard to believe it wasn’t all a nightmare. Over three years alone in his house. Now this.

But he couldn’t doubt the sharp, shifting pain in his chest and he couldn’t doubt the way the moist, red spot kept getting bigger and bigger. He closed his eyes. I’m going to die, he thought.

He tried to understand that. But that didn’t work either. In spite of having lived with death all these years, in spite of having walked a tightrope of bare existence across an endless maw of death — in spite of that he couldn’t understand it. Personal death still was a thing beyond comprehension.

He was still on his back when the door behind him opened.

He couldn’t turn; it hurt too much. He lay there and listened to footsteps approach the bed, then stop. He looked up but the person hadn’t come into view yet. My executioner, he thought, the justice of this new society. He closed his eyes and waited.

The shoes moved again until he knew the person was by the cot. He tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. He ran his tongue over his lips.

“Are you thirsty?”

He looked up with dulled eyes at her and suddenly his heart began throbbing. The increased blood flow made the pain billow up and swallow him for a moment. He couldn’t cut off the groan of agony. He twisted his head on the pillow, biting his lips and clutching at the blanket feverishly. The red spot grew bigger.

She was on her knees now, patting perspiration from his brow, touching his lips with a cool, wet cloth. The pain began to subside slowly and her face came into gradual focus. Neville lay motionless, staring at her with pain-filled eyes.

“So,” he finally said.

She didn’t answer. She got up and sat on the edge of the bed. She patted his brow again. Then she reached over his head and he heard her pouring water into a glass.

The pain dug razors into him as she lifted his head a little so he could drink. This is what they must have felt when the pikes went into them, he thought. This cutting, biting agony, the escape of life’s blood.

His head fell back on the pillow.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

She sat looking down, at him, a strange mixture of sympathy and detachment on her face. Her reddish hair was drawn back into a tight cluster behind her head and clipped there. She looked very clean-cut and self-possessed.

“You wouldn’t believe me, would you?” she said.

A little cough puffed out his cheeks. His mouth opened and he sucked in some of the damp morning air.

“I — believed you,” he said.

“Then why didn’t you go?”

He tried, to speak but the words jumbled together. His throat moved and he drew in another faltering breath.

“I — couldn't,” he muttered. “I almost went several times. Once I even packed and — started out. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t — go. I was too used to the — the house. It was a habit, just — just like the habit of living. I got — used to it.”