The Ruins (44 page)

 "Are
you sure?" she asked Jeff.

 "Sure?"

 "That
she's…" Stacy couldn't bring
herself to say it.

 But
Jeff understood; she sensed him nodding in the darkness.

 "How?"
she whispered

 "How
what?"

 "How
did she…"

 "It
grew over her mouth. It choked her."

 Stacy
took a deep breath,
reflexively.
This
can't be happening,
she
thought.
How
can this be happening?
That campfire smell was in the air
again, and it reminded her that there were people at the bottom of the
hill. "We have to tell them," she said.

 "Who?"

 "The
Mayans."

 She
could feel Jeff watching, but he didn't speak. She wished she
could make out his expression, because he was part of the unreality
here, the not-happening quality—his calmness, his quiet
voice, his hidden face. Amy was dead, and they were just sitting beside
her, doing nothing.

 "We
have to tell them what's happened."
Stacy's voice rose as she spoke. She could feel it more than
hear it, her heart speeding up, burning through the tequila, the sleep,
even the terror. "We have to get them to help."

 "They're
not
gonna
—"

 "They
have to."

 "Stacy—"

 "They
have to!"

 "
Stacy!
"

 She
stopped, blinking at him. She was having a hard time remaining in her
crouch, her muscles jumping in her thighs. She wanted to leap up, run
down the hill, bring this all to an end. It seemed so simple.

 "Shut
up," Jeff said, his voice very quiet. "All
right?"

 She
didn't answer, was too startled. Briefly, she felt the urge
to scream, to lash out at him, strike him, but then it passed.
Everything seemed to collapse in its wake. Her fatigue was back
suddenly, and her fear, too. She reached, took Amy's hand. It
was cool to the touch, slightly damp. If it had squeezed back, Stacy
would've shrieked, and it was this realization more than
anything else that finally, unequivocally, brought the truth home.

 
Dead,
Stacy
thought
She's
dead.

 "No
more talking," Jeff said. "Can you do that? Just be
here with me—with her—and not say another
word?"

 Stacy
kept gripping Amy's hand. Somehow this made things easier.
She nodded.

 And
so that was what they did. They remained there together, one on either
side of Amy's body, waiting, not speaking, while the earth
began its slow tilt toward dawn.

E
ric kept begging Mathias to
cut him open, but Mathias wouldn't do it, not in the dark.

 "We've
got to get it out," Eric insisted. "It's
spreading everywhere."

 "We
don't know that."

 "Can't
you feel it?"

 "I
can feel that there's swelling."

 "It's
not swelling. It's the vine.
It's—"

 Mathias
patted at his arm. "
Shh
,"
he said. "When it gets light."

 It
was hot in the tent, musty and humid, and Mathias's hand was
slick with sweat. Eric didn't like the feel of it. He pulled
away. "I can't wait that long."

 "Dawn's
almost here."

 "Is
it because I called you a Nazi?"

 Mathias
was silent.

 "It
was just a joke. We were talking about the movie they'll
make. When we get back, how they'll turn you into the
villain. Because you're German, right? So they'd
make you a Nazi." He wasn't thinking straight, he
knew, was talking too quickly. He was scared, and it seemed possible he
wasn't making perfect sense. But he'd started down
this road, and now he couldn't seem to stop himself. "Not that you are one. Just that they'll make you
one. Because they'll need a bad guy. They always need one.
Though I guess the vine could be the villain, too, couldn't
it? So maybe you don't have to be a Nazi. You can be a hero,
like Jeff. You'll both be heroes. Do they have Boy Scouts in
Germany?"

 He
heard Mathias sigh. "Eric—"

 "Just
give me the fucking knife, okay? I'll do it
myself."

 "I
don't have the knife."

 "So
go get it."

 "When
it starts to get light—"

 "Call
Jeff.
Jeff'll
do it."

 "We
can't call Jeff."

 "Because?"

 There
was a pause, and Eric could feel Mathias hesitating. "Something
bad's
happened," he said.

 Eric
thought of the little lean-to, that stench of urine and shit and rot.
He nodded. "I know."

 "I
don't think you do."

 "It's
Pablo, isn't it? He's died."

 "No.
It's not Pablo."

 "Then
what?"

 "It's
Amy."

 "
Amy
?"
Eric hadn't expected this. "What's wrong
with Amy?"

 There
was that same pause again, that search for the right words. "She's gone."

 "
She
left
?"

 He
sensed Mathias shaking his head in the darkness. "She's dead, Eric. It killed her."

 "What're
you—"

 "It
smothered her. In her sleep."

 Eric
was silent, too shocked to
speak.
Dead
.
"Are you sure?" he asked, knowing even as he spoke
that it was a stupid question.

 "Yes."

 Eric
felt a spinning sensation in his head, an abrupt loss of
traction.
Dead
.
He wanted to get up and go see for himself, but he wasn't
certain he had the strength. Someone needed to cut the vine out of his
leg first, pull it from his
chest.
Dead
.
He knew it was true, yet at the same time he couldn't accept
it.
Dead
.
It was silly, but the movie they'd joked about had taken hold
of his imagination: Amy was the good girl, the prissy one; she was
supposed to survive, was supposed to float away with Jeff in their
hot-air balloon.

 Dead,
dead, dead.

 "Jesus,"
he said.

 "I
know."

 "I
mean—"

 There
was that pat of the hand again, that sweaty touch of skin. "
Shh
. Don't.
There's nothing to say."

 Eric
let his head fall back onto the tent's floor. He shut his
eyes for a while, then opened them, searching for the first hints of
light coming through the orange nylon. But there was only
darkness—all around him, only darkness.

 He
closed his eyes again and lay there, waiting for dawn, with that single
word echoing through his head.

 Dead,
dead, dead, dead, dead…

E
ric started to call from the
tent again, as soon as the sun began to rise. He wanted the knife.
Mathias stepped out through the little opening, stood in the clearing,
staring at Jeff and Stacy. They were still sitting next to
Amy's body, one on either side of it. Stacy was holding
Amy's hand.

 "What?"
Jeff asked.

 Mathias
shrugged, tilted his head. The light hadn't yet gained much
strength; it was tinged with pink. Off in the distance, in the jungle,
Jeff could hear birds calling out, shrieking and cawing. He
couldn't read Mathias's expression: worried, maybe.
Or just uncertain. "I think you should come look."

 Jeff
got up, feeling stiff, heavy-limbed, his reserves running out on him.
He followed Mathias back into the tent, leaving Stacy with
Amy's body.

 Inside,
the light was still too dim to see much. Eric was lying on his back.
His left leg and most of his abdomen were hidden beneath something, and
it took Jeff a moment to realize that it was the vine.

 He
crouched beside him. "Why haven't you pulled it
off?" he asked.

 "He's
afraid to tear them," Mathias said.

 Eric
nodded. "If they break off, they can go anywhere. Like
worms."

 Jeff
prodded at the mass of leaves, bending close to see. The vines had
pushed themselves into the wounds on Eric's leg and chest,
but it was hard to tell how far they'd managed to get. Jeff
needed better light. "Can you walk?" he asked.

 Eric
shook his head. "It'll crush them.
They'll burn me."

 Jeff
considered this; it was probably true, he decided. "Then
we'll carry you."

 Eric
seemed frightened by this. He tried to sit, but he only made it
halfway, propping himself up on his elbow. "Where?"

 "Outside.
It's too dark in here."

 There
were five tendrils in all, coiling themselves around Eric's
body. Three had attacked his leg, each of them entering a different
wound. The other two had both pushed their way in through the cut on
his chest. Jeff realized they'd need to snap them off from
their roots if they wanted to carry him out of there, and he did it
quickly, not saying anything, worried that Eric might protest. Then he
gestured for Mathias to help him. Mathias took Eric's
shoulders, Jeff his feet, and they picked him up. The five tendrils
hung off his body, dangling toward the floor of the tent, writhing
snakelike in the air, as they carried him out into the clearing.

 They
set him down in the dirt, midway between Pablo and Amy. Then Jeff
stepped across the clearing, picked up the knife. It was a good thing,
having a task like this; he could feel it helping him. Just holding the
knife in his hand seemed to clear his mind, sharpen his perceptions. He
hesitated for a second, staring about their little campsite. They were
a desperate-looking bunch: dirty, their clothes falling off them.
Mathias's and Eric's faces were thickly
stubbled
. Eric was covered in
dried blood; the vines looked as if they were growing from his wounds
rather than into them. Jeff had seen him glance toward Amy as
they'd carried him out from the tent, just a quick
exploratory peek, before he flinched away. No one had spoken; they all
seemed to be waiting for someone else to do it first. They needed a
plan, Jeff knew, a path to carry them beyond this present moment,
something to occupy their thoughts, and he understood, too, that he
would have to be the one to find it.

 The
light was growing stronger, bringing the first of the day's
heat with it. Pablo's breathing—remarkably,
unexpectedly—had become much quieter. For an instant, Jeff
even thought the Greek might've died. He approached the
lean-to, crouched beside it. No, he was still with them. But the
phlegmy
rattle had vanished; his
breathing was steadier now, slower. Jeff touched Pablo's
forehead, felt the heat coming off him, the fever still burning within
his body. And yet something had changed. When Jeff pulled his hand
away, the Greek's eyes eased open, stared up at him. They
seemed surprisingly focused, too: alert.

 "Hey,"
Jeff said.

 Pablo
licked his lips, swallowed dryly. "Potato?" he
whispered.

 Jeff
stared at him, trying to make sense of this. "Potato?"

 Pablo
nodded, licking his lips again.

 "He
wants water," Stacy said from across the clearing. "That's Greek for water."

 Jeff
turned to look at her. "How do you know?"

 "He
was saying it before."

 Eric
was lying on his back, staring up at the sky. "The knife,
Jeff," he said.

 "In
a moment."

 Mathias
was standing over Eric, his arms folded across his chest, as if he were
cold. But Jeff could see the sweat on his face, making it seem to shine
in the gathering light. Jeff caught his eye, pointed toward the water
jug. It was sitting in the dirt beside the tent. Mathias picked it up,
brought it to him.

 Jeff
uncapped the jug, held it in the air above Pablo, pointing. "Potato?" he asked.

 Pablo
nodded, opened his mouth, his tongue protruding slightly. There was
something on his teeth, Jeff noticed, a brownish stain—blood,
perhaps. Jeff lowered the jug, brought it to Pablo's lips,
tilted a small amount of water onto his tongue. The Greek swallowed,
coughing slightly, then opened his mouth for more. Three times, Jeff
repeated this ritual. It was a good sign, he knew—this
quieting of Pablo's breathing, this return to consciousness,
this ability to stomach the water—but Jeff couldn't
quite bring himself to accept it. In his mind, Pablo was already dead.
He didn't believe that anyone could survive all that had
happened to the Greek in the past thirty-six hours, not without
elaborate medical intervention. The broken back, the amputated legs,
the loss of blood, the almost certain infection—a few
mouthfuls of water weren't going to compensate for any of
that.

 When
Pablo shut his eyes again, Jeff moved back across the clearing,
crouched beside Eric.

 A
plan
—that
was what they needed.

 Clean
the knife—wash the blood off its blade, build another fire to
sterilize it. Maybe sterilize one of the needles from the sewing kit,
too. Then cut the vine out of Eric, stitch him back up.

 And
someone should head down the hill before long to watch for the Greeks.

 And
they should sew the remains of the blue tent into a pouch, in case it
rained again that afternoon.

 And—what
else? There was something he was neglecting, Jeff knew, something he
was avoiding.

 Amy's
body.

 He
glanced toward it, then quickly
away.
One
step at a time,
he told
himself.
Start
with the knife.

 "It's
going to take a few minutes to get ready," he said to Eric.

 Eric
started to sit up but then thought better of it. "What do you
mean?"

 "I
have to sterilize the knife."

 "It
doesn't matter. I don't need—"

 "I'm
not cutting into you with a dirty knife."