Jeff started across the clearing, stepped into the surrounding vegetation. Half a dozen strides and he reached one of those odd waist-high mounds. He crouched beside it, began yanking at the vines.He’s going to get burned, Stacy thought, but she could tell he didn’t care. As he pulled at the plants, she began to glimpse bits of yellowish white beneath the mass of green.Stones, she thought, knowing better even as she fashioned the word in her head. Jeff reached into the center of the mound, pulled out something vaguely spherelike, held it toward them. Stacy didn’t want to see what it was; that was the only explanation she could devise for how long it took her to recognize the object, which was otherwise so instantly identifiable, that smiling Halloween image, that pirate flag flapping from the mast of Jeff’s arm, poor Yorick of infinite jest. He was holding a skull toward them. She had to repeat the word inside her head before she could fully absorb it, believe in it.A skull, a skull, a skull…
Then Jeff waved across the hilltop, and all their heads swiveled in unison to follow the gesture. Those mounds were everywhere, Stacy realized. She started to count them, reached nine, with many more still to number, and flinched away from the task.
“It’s killed them all,” Jeff said. He strode back toward them, wiping his hands on his pants. “Thevine, not the Mayans. One by one, it’s killed them all.”
Eric had finally stopped pacing. “We have to break out,” he said.
Everyone turned to stare at him. He was flipping his hand quickly back and forth at his side, as if he’d just caught it in a drawer and was trying to shake the pain out. That was how jumpy he’d become, how anxious.
“We can make shields. Spears, maybe. And charge them. All at once. We can—”
Jeff cut him off, almost disdainfully. “They have guns,” he said. “At least two, maybe more. And there are only five of us. With what? Thirteen miles to safety? And Pablo—”
Eric’s hand started to go faster, blurring, making a snapping sound. He shouted, “We can’t just sit here doing nothing!”
“Eric—”
“It’s inside me!”
Jeff shook his head, very firmly. His voice, too, was firm, startlingly so. “That’s not true. It might feel like it is, but it’s not. I promise you.”
There was no reason for Eric to believe this, of course. Jeff was simply asserting it—even Stacy could see that. But it seemed to work nonetheless. She watched Eric surrender, watched the tension ease from his muscles. He lowered himself to the ground, sat with his knees hugged to his chest, shut his eyes. Stacy knew it wasn’t going to last, though; she could tell he’d soon be back up on his feet, pacing the length of the clearing. Because even as Jeff turned away, thinking that he’d solved this one problem and could now move on to the next, she saw Eric’s hand drifting down toward his shin again, toward the wound there, toward the subtle swelling around its margins.
They each took a swig of water. They sat in the clearing beside Pablo’s lean-to, in a loose circle, and passed the plastic jug from hand to hand. Amy didn’t think of her vow from the night before—her intention to confess her midnight theft and refuse the morning’s ration—she accepted her allotted swallow without the slightest sense of guilt. She was too thirsty to do otherwise, too eager to wash the sour taste of vomit from her mouth.
The Greeks are coming: this was what she kept telling herself, imagining their progress with each passing moment, the two of them laughing and capering in the Cancún bus station, buying the tickets with their names printed on them—Juan and Don Quixote—the delight they’d feel at this, slapping each other’s shoulders, grinning in that impish way of theirs. Then the bus ride, the haggling for the taxi, the long walk along the trail through the jungle to the first clearing. They’d skip the Mayan village, Amy decided—somehow they’d know better—they’d find the second trail, and hurry down it, singing, perhaps. Amy could picture their faces, their utter astonishment, when they emerged from the trees and glimpsed the vine-covered hill before them, with her or Jeff or Stacy or Eric standing at its base, waving them away, miming out their predicament, their peril. And the Greeks would understand, too. They’d turn, rush back into the jungle, go for help. All this was hours away, Amy knew. It was still so early. Juan and Don Quixote weren’t even at the bus station yet; maybe they weren’t even awake. But they were going to come. She couldn’t allow herself to believe otherwise. Yes, it didn’t matter if the vine was malevolent, if—as Jeff asserted—it could think and was plotting their destruction, because the Greeks were hurrying to their rescue. Any moment now they’d be rousing themselves, showering and breakfasting and studying Pablo’s map….
Jeff had them empty their packs so they could inventory the food they’d brought.
Stacy produced her and Eric’s supplies: two rotten-looking bananas, a liter bottle of water, a bag of pretzels, a small can of mixed nuts.
Amy unzipped Jeff’s knapsack, pulled out two bottles of iced tea, a pair of protein bars, a box of raisins, a plastic bag full of grapes going brown.
Mathias set down an orange, a can of Coke, a soggy tuna fish sandwich.
They were all hungry, of course; they could’ve easily eaten everything right then and there and still not been satisfied, not nearly. But Jeff wouldn’t let them. He crouched above the little pile of food, frowning down at it, as if hoping that he might, simply through his powers of concentration, somehow manage to enlarge it—double it, triple it—miraculously providing enough food for them to survive here for as long as might be necessary.
As long as might be necessary.That was the sort of phrase he’d use, too, Amy knew—objective and detached—and she felt a brief push of anger toward him. The Greeks would show up this afternoon. Why was he so stubbornly refusing to acknowledge this? They’d find a way to warn the two of them off, turn them back for help; rescue would arrive by nightfall. There was no need to ration food. It was alarmist and extreme. Later, Amy believed, they’d tease him about it, mimic the way he’d picked up the tuna fish sandwich, unwrapped it, then used the knife to cut it into five equal sections. Amy spent a few moments imagining this scenario—all of them back on the beach in Cancún, laughing at Jeff. She’d hold her finger an inch away from her thumb to show everyone how small the pieces had been, how absurdly small—yes, it was true, no bigger than a cracker—she could fit the whole thing in her mouth. And this was what she was doing now, too, even as she busied herself picturing that happier scene still to come—tomorrow, showered and rested, on the beach with their brightly colored towels—she opened her mouth, placed the little square of sandwich inside it, chewed a handful of times, swallowed, and it was gone.
The others were tarrying over theirs—taking tiny, mouselike bites—and Amy felt a lurch of regret. Why hadn’t she thought to do this, to draw the process out, elongate what couldn’t really even be called a snack into something that might almost resemble a meal? She wanted her ration back, wanted a new one altogether, so that she might find a way to consume it more gradually. But it was gone; it had dropped irretrievably into her stomach, and now she had to sit and wait while the others lingered over theirs, nibbling and sniffing and savoring. She felt like crying suddenly—no, she’d felt like crying all morning, maybe ever since they’d arrived here on this hill, but now it was only more so. She was thrashing about in deep, deep water, trying to pretend all the while that this wasn’t true, and it was wearing her down—the thrashing, the pretending—she didn’t know how much longer she could keep it up. She wanted more food, more water, wanted to go home, wanted Pablo not to be lying there beneath the lean-to with the flesh stripped from his legs. She wanted all this and more, and none of it was possible, so she kept thrashing and pretending, and any moment now she knew it would become too much for her, that she’d have to stop thrashing, stop pretending, and give herself over to the drowning.
They passed the plastic jug of water around and everyone took another swallow to wash the food down.
“What about Pablo?” Mathias asked.
Jeff glanced toward the lean-to. “I doubt he can stomach it.”
Mathias shook his head. “I mean his pack.”
They scanned the clearing for Pablo’s knapsack. It was lying next to Jeff; he reached, unzipped it, pulled out three bottles of tequila, one after another, then upended the bag, shaking it. A handful of tiny cellophane packets tumbled out: saltines. Stacy laughed; so did Amy, and it was a relief, too. It felt good, almost normal. Her head seemed to clear a little, her heart to lighten. Three bottles of tequila—what had Pablo been thinking? Where had he imagined they were going? Amy wanted to keep laughing, to prolong the moment in the same way that the others had stretched out their paltry portion of tuna fish, but it was too slippery, too quick for her. Stacy stopped and then it was just Amy, and she couldn’t sustain it on her own. She fell silent, watched Jeff slide the bottles back into the knapsack before adding the saltines to their small cache of food. She could see him making calculations in his head, deciding what they ought to eat and when. The perishables first, she assumed—the bananas and grapes and orange—rationing them out bite by bite. In her mouth, the aftertaste of the tuna was mixing with the lingering residue of vomit. Her stomach ached, felt oddly bloated; she wanted more food. It wasn’t enough, what Jeff had given them; this seemed obvious to her. He had to offer them something further—a cracker at least, a slice of orange, a handful of grapes.
Amy glanced around the loose circle they’d formed. Eric wasn’t part of it; he was hobbling back and forth again, pacing, stopping now and then to bend and examine his leg. Mathias was watching Jeff arrange the pile of food; Stacy was working on her last meager morsel of sandwich, taking a tiny nibble, then chewing for a long time with her eyes shut. The Greeks were coming—they’d be here in a handful of hours—it was ridiculous for them to be rationing in such a manner, and somebody needed to speak this truth. But it wasn’t going to be any of the others, Amy realized. No, as usual, she would have to be the one: the complainer, the whiner, the squeaky wheel.
“One of us ought to go down the hill and watch for the Greeks,” Jeff said. “And I was thinking we should dig a latrine—now, before the sun rises any higher. And—”
“Is that all we get?” Amy asked.
Jeff lifted his head, looked at her. He didn’t know what she was talking about.
Amy waved at the pile of food. “To eat,” she said.
He nodded. That was it, just a single curt dip of his head. Apparently, her question wasn’t even worth a spoken response. There was to be no discussion, no debate. Amy turned to the others, expecting support, but it was as if they hadn’t heard her. They were all watching Jeff, waiting for him to continue. Jeff hesitated another moment, his gaze resting on Amy, making sure she was done. And she was, too. She shrugged, looked away, surrendered to the will of the group. She was a coward in that way, and she knew it. She could complain, she could pout, but she couldn’t rebel.
“Mathias and I will do the digging,” Jeff said. “Eric should probably try to rest—in the tent, out of the sun. That means one of you two will have to go down the hill, while the other one stays here with Pablo.” He looked at Stacy and Amy.
Stacy wasn’t paying attention, Amy could tell; her eyes were still shut, savoring the last of her tuna. Amy was conscious, beyond her hunger and thirst and general sense of discomfort, of a growing need to urinate. She’d been holding it in all morning, not wanting to empty her bladder into the bottle again, hoping she could find a moment to sneak off and pee in the dirt somewhere. This was what prompted her to speak, more than anything else; she wasn’t thinking about what it would be like down the hill, all alone, facing the Mayans across that barren stretch of land—no, she was thinking about crouching on the trail, out of sight from the others, her jeans pulled down around her ankles, a puddle of piss slowly forming beneath her.
“I’ll go,” she said.
Jeff nodded his approval. “Wear your hat. Your sunglasses. And try not to move around too much. We’ll want to wait a couple hours before we take any more water.”
Amy realized that he was dismissing her. She stood up, still thinking only of her bladder, the relief that awaited farther down the hill. She put on her hat, her sunglasses, looped her camera around her neck, then set off across the clearing. She was just starting along the trail, when Jeff called out after her, “Amy!”
She turned. He’d stood up, was jogging toward her. When he reached her side, he took her by the elbow, spoke in a low voice. “If you see the chance to run,” he said, “don’t hesitate. Take it.”
Amy didn’t say anything. She wasn’t going to try to run—it seemed like a preposterous idea to her, a pointless risk. The Greeks were coming; even now, they were probably waking up, showering, packing their knapsacks.
“All you have to do is get into the jungle—just a little ways. Then drop to the ground. It’s thick enough that they probably wouldn’t be able to find you. Wait awhile, and then make your way out. But carefully. It’s when you move that they’ll see you.”
“I’m not going to run, Jeff.”
“I’m just saying if you have the—”
“The Greeks are coming. Why would I try to run?”
Now it was Jeff who didn’t say anything. He stared at her, expressionless.
“You act like they’re not coming. You won’t let us eat or drink or—”
“We don’t know that they’re coming.”
“Of course they’re coming.”
“And if they do come, we can’t be certain they won’t just end up on the hill here with us.”
Amy shook her head at that, as if the very idea were too outlandish to consider. “I wouldn’t let them.”
Again, Jeff didn’t speak. There was the hint of a frown on his face now.
“I’ll warn them away,” Amy insisted.
Jeff continued to watch her in silence for a long moment, and she could sense him debating, toying with the idea of saying something further, setting it down, picking it back up again. When he finally spoke, his voice dropped even lower, almost to a whisper. “This is serious, Amy. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“If it was just a matter of waiting, I’d feel okay. As hard as it might be, I’m pretty sure we’d make it. Maybe not Pablo, but the rest of us. Sooner or later, someone would come—we’d just have to tough it out until then. And we would, too. We’d be hungry and thirsty, and maybe Eric’s knee would get infected, but we’d be all right in the end, don’t you think?”
She nodded.
“But it’s not just waiting now.”
Amy didn’t respond. She knew what he was saying, but she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge it.
Jeff’s gaze remained intent upon her, forcing eye contact. “You understand what I mean?”
“You mean the vine.”
He nodded. “It’s going to try to kill us. Like all these other people. And the longer we stay here, the better its chances.”
Amy stared off across the hilltop. She’d seen what the vine could do. She’d seen it come squirming toward her across the clearing so that it could suck up her little puddle of vomit. She’d seen Pablo’s legs stripped free of flesh. Yet all this was so far beyond what she took to be the immutable laws of nature, so far beyond what she knew a plant ought to be capable of, that she couldn’t quite bring herself to accept it. Strange things had happened—dreadful things—and she’d witnessed them with her own eyes, but even so, she continued to doubt them. Looking at the vine now, tangled and coiled across the hill, its dark green leaves, its bloodred flowers, she could muster no dread of it. She was scared of the Mayans with their bows and guns; she was scared of not getting enough to eat or drink. But the vine remained just a plant in her mind, and she couldn’t bring herself to fear it in the way she knew she ought to. She couldn’t believe that it would kill her.
She fell back to her place of safety: “The Greeks will come,” she said.
Jeff sighed. She could tell
that she’d disappointed him, that she’d once again turned out to be less than he’d needed her to be. But it was all she could do—she couldn’t be better or braver or smarter than she was—and she could see him thinking this, too, resigning himself to her failure. His hand dropped from her elbow.
“Just be careful, okay?” he said. “Stay alert. Scream if anything happens—loud as you can—and we’ll come running.”
With those parting words, he sent her down the hill.
Eric was back in the orange tent. It was a bad idea, he knew; it was the worst possible place for him to be, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He felt passive and inert, and yet—within this outer shell of sluggishness—full of panic. Trapped, out of control, and being in the tent only made it worse. But Jeff had told him to get into the shade and try to rest, so that was what he was doing.
He sensed it wasn’t the right thing, though.
It was growing hot, the sun climbing implacably upward, beating down on the tent’s orange nylon, so that soon the cloth itself began to seem as if it were radiating light and heat, rather than merely filtering it. Eric lay on his back, sweaty, greasy-haired, trying to bring his breathing under control. It was too fast, too shallow, and he believed that if he could only quiet it down some, deepening his inhalations, letting the air fill his chest, everything else would follow—his heart would slow, and then maybe his thoughts would, too. Because that was the main problem just now: his thoughts were moving too fast, jumping and rearing. He knew that he was on the edge of hysteria—that he’d maybe even drifted over into the thing itself. He was having some sort of anxiety attack, and he couldn’t seem to find a way back from it. There was his breathing and his heart and his thoughts, and all of them had inexplicably slipped beyond his control.
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