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Name: Rita Blakemoor

Age: Middle aged/Maybe 50

Occupation: Socialite

Home: New York City, NY


Status: Immune


Harry Blakemoor (Husband/Deceased)

Larry Underwood

Random Facts:


Her husband, Harry, died of a massive stroke two years before the superflu. 

Owns a .32 handgun.


Captain Trips


Heather Graham (2020 CBS All Access Miniseries)

Laura San Giacomo (1994 ABC Miniseries - The Character of Rita was combined with Nadine's character for story purposes.)

Chapter Appearances:

27, 35, 41

Rita Blakemoor is found by Larry Underwood, sitting in Central Park shortly after the superflu devastation. After a short conversation, she asks Larry to take her to lunch, and he obliges. The two quickly become lovers, and they decide to leave the city together. Being fairly mentally unstable, and incredibly dependent on Larry, Rita is ill-prepared for the long journey ahead, and Larry blows up at her when he realizes she's wearing sandals, and her feet are bleeding. Angry and stubborn, Rita leaves him in the city just before the Lincoln Tunnel, but then soon catches up with him inside the tunnel when she can't bear to be alone any longer. 

They make it to Bennington, Vermont, and on the morning of July 4th, Larry finds that Rita has overdosed overnight and choked on her own vomit. Whether accidental or not is not known. Rather than bury her, Larry leaves Rita in the tent where she died.


"She was maybe fifty, but had taken great pains to look younger. She was dressed in expensive-looking gray-green slacks and a silk off-the-shoulder peasant blouse ... except, Larry thought, as far as he knew, peasants can’t afford silk. She looked around at the sound of Larry’s footsteps. She had a pill in one hand and tossed it casual y into her mouth like a peanut." (Chapter 27)

"She looked like a woman from an Irwin Shaw novel. Nightwork, maybe, or the one they had made for TV when he was just a kid." (Chapter 27)

"She stood up and offered him her arm with a slightly deprecatory smile. As he linked his through it, he caught a whiff of her sachet, a smell that was at once comforting and disquietingly adult in its associations for him, almost old. His mother had worn sachet on their many trips to the movies together." (Chapter 27)

"She chattered incessantly, and later he could remember no one thing she had chattered about (yes, just one: she had always dreamed, she said, of strolling up Fifth Avenue on the arm of a handsome young man, a man who was young enough to have been her own son but who wasn’t), but he recalled the walk often just the same, especial y after she began to jitter apart like some indifferently made toy. Her beautiful smile, her light, cynical, casual chatter, the whisper of her slacks." (Chapter 27)