The Ruins

by Scott Smith

  Then again, perhaps there wouldn't be a later. Because there was that possibility, too, wasn't there? No later, nothing beyond this place, Amy simply the first of them, with himself and the others soon to follow. And if that were the case, what did it matter, really? This way rather than another, now rather than in the coming days or weeks-couldn't it be a blessing, even, like any other abridgement of suffering?

  "Jeff…" Mathias said.

  He hadn't known. He hadn't been able to see. She'd been only fifteen feet away, but lost in darkness nonetheless. How could he have known?

  Eric was yelling from the tent, calling for Stacy, for the knife, for help.

  Not now, Jeff thought, struggling to discipline himself. Later.

  "Mathias?" Stacy said, sounding scared. "Is she…"

  "Yes."

  Babies pulled from trash cans, old women found slumped in their nightgowns, hikers dug out of snowbanks-the main thing was not to give up, not to make assumptions, to act without hesitation, and pray for that miracle, that quirk, that sudden gasp of air.

  Stacy took a single step forward. "You mean-"

  "Dead."

  Jeff ignored them. Back to her mouth: the cold lips, the taste of vomit, the burn of the sap as he forced the air into her chest. Eric kept yelling from the tent. Stacy and Mathias were silent, not moving, watching Jeff work at the body-the lungs, the heart-straining for that moment of grace, which resisted him, fought him, wouldn't come. He gave up long before he stopped, kept at it for an extra handful of minutes out of simple inertia, a terror of what it meant to lift his lips from her mouth, his hands from her chest, with no intention of returning. It was fatigue that finally forced him to a halt, a cramp in his right thigh, a growing sense of light-headedness; he sat back on his heels, struggled to catch his breath.

  No one spoke.

  She called my name, Jeff thought. He wiped at his mouth; the sap made his lips feel abraded. I heard her call it. He picked up Amy's hand, clasped it in his own, as if trying to warm it.

  "Stacy…" Eric shouted.

  Jeff lifted his head, peered toward the tent. "What's wrong with him?" he asked. The quietness of his voice astonished him; he'd expected something ragged, something desperate: a howl. He was waiting for tears-he could feel them, just beyond his reach-but they didn't come.

  Wouldn't.

  Later, he thought.

  "It's inside him again," Stacy said, and she, too, spoke softly, almost inaudibly. It was the presence of death, Jeff knew, reducing them all to whispers.

  He let go of Amy's hand, laid it carefully across her chest, thinking of that rubber dummy once more, those limp arms. He'd received a certificate for passing the test; his mother had framed it, hung it in his room. He could shut his eyes now and see all those certificates and ribbons and plaques hanging on the walls, the shelves full of trophies. "Someone should go help him," he said.

  Mathias stood up without a word, started toward the tent. Jeff and Stacy watched him go, a shadow moving off across the clearing.

  Ghostlike, Jeff thought, and then the tears arrived; he couldn't hold them back. No sobs, no gasps-no wailing or moaning or keening-just a half dozen drops of salty water rolling slowly down his cheeks, stinging where the vine's sap had burned his skin.

  Stacy couldn't see Jeff's tears. She couldn't see much of anything, actually. She was in bad shape: tired, drunk, aching-in her muscles, in her bones-and thick-headed with fear. It was dark, too dark; it hurt her eyes, the straining to pull things into some semblance of themselves. Amy was lying on her back and Jeff was kneeling beside her-that was all she could see. But she knew, even so, had known as soon as she stepped out of the tent-not how, just the fact of it: She's dead.

  She lowered herself into a crouch. She was two feet away from them; she could've touched Amy if she'd only reached out her hand. She knew she ought to do this, too, that it would be the right thing, exactly what Amy would've wanted of her. But she didn't move. She was too scared: Touching her would make it real.

  "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.

  Eric 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…

  Eric 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."

  Eric held out his hand. "I'll do it."

  Jeff shook his head. "Three minutes, Eric. Okay?"

  Eric hesitated, debating. Finally, he seemed to realize he didn't have a choice. He lowered his hand. "Please hurry," he said.

  Clean the knife.

  Jeff returned to the tent, started to dig through the archaeologists' backpacks, searching for a bar of soap. He found a toiletry kit zipped into a side pocket; there was a razor inside, a small can of shaving cream, a toothbrush and paste, a comb, a stick of deodorant, and-in a little red plastic box-a bar of soap. He carried the entire kit with him back out into the clearing, along with a small towel he'd also found in the backpack, a needle, and a tiny spool of thread.

  The bar of soap, the towel, the knife, the needle, the thread, the plastic jug of water-what else was needed?

  He turned to Mathias, who was sitting now, beside the little lean-to. "Can you build a fire?" he asked.

  "How big?"

  "Just a small one. To heat the knife."

  Mathias stood up, began to move about the clearing, making his preparations. They'd left the remaining notebooks out in the rain yesterday; they were still too wet to burn. Mathias disappeared into the tent, searching for something else to use as fuel. Jeff poured a small amount of water from the jug onto the towel, then began to rub at the soap with it, working it into a lather. As he started to scrub at the dried blood on the knife's blade, Mathias reappeared, carrying a paperback book, a pair of men's underwear. He arranged these in the dirt beside Jeff, sprinkling some of the remaining tequila over them. The book was a Hemingway novel, The Sun Also Rises. Jeff had read it in high school, the same edition, the same cover. Looking down at it now, he realized he couldn't remember a single thing about it.