“Stealing water in the middle of the night. Getting drunk. What’re you thinking? That we’re playing at this?”
She shook her head again. “You’re being too hard, Jeff.”
“Hard?Look at all those fucking mounds.” He pointed out across the hillside, at the vine-covered bones. “That’s how we’re going to end up, too. And you’re helping it happen.”
Amy kept shaking her head. “The Greeks—”
“Stop it. You’re like a child. The Greeks, the Greeks, the Greeks—they aren’t coming, Amy. You’ve got to face that.”
She covered her ears with her hands. “Don’t, Jeff. Please don’t—”
Jeff stepped forward, grabbed her wrists, yanked them down. He was shouting now. “Look at Pablo. He’s dying—can’t you see that? And Eric’s going to end up with gangrene or—”
“Shh.” She tried to pull away, glancing anxiously at the tent.
“And the three of you aredrinking. Do you have the slightest idea how fucking stupid that is? It’s exactly what the vine would want you to—”
Amy screamed, a shriek of pure fury, startling him into silence. “I didn’t want to come!” she yelled. She jerked her hands free, began to swing at him, hitting him in the chest, knocking him back a step. “I didn’t want to come!” She kept repeating it, shouting, hitting him. “You’re the one!You suggested it! I wanted to stay at the beach! It’s your fault! Yours! Not mine!” She was hitting his chest, his shoulders; her face was contorted, shiny with dampness—Jeff couldn’t tell if it was the rain or tears. “Yours!” she kept yelling. “Not mine!”
The vine started up again suddenly, also shouting:It’s my fault. I’m the one, aren’t I? The one who stepped into the vines? It was Amy’s voice, coming at them from all sides. Amy stopped hitting him, stared wildly about them.
It’s my fault.
“Stop it!” Amy shouted.
I’m the one, aren’t I?
“Shut up!”
The one who stepped into the vines?
Amy spun on him, looking desperate, her hands held out before her, begging. “Make it stop.”
It’s my fault.
Amy pointed at him, her hand shaking. “You were the one! You know that’s true! Not me. I didn’t want to come.”
I’m the one, aren’t I?
“Make it stop. Will you please make it stop?”
Jeff didn’t move, didn’t speak; he just stood there staring at her.
The one who stepped into the vines?
The sky was darkening again, but it wasn’t the storm. Behind the screen of clouds, the sun was reaching for the horizon. Night was coming, and they’d done nothing to prepare for it. They ought to eat, Jeff knew, and thinking this he remembered the bag of grapes. It wasn’t only the drinking; she and the others had helped themselves to the food, too. “What else did you eat?” he asked.
“Eat?”
“Besides the grapes. Did you steal anything else?”
“We didn’tsteal the grapes. We were hungry. We—”
“Answer me.”
“Fuck you, Jeff. You’re acting like—”
“Just tell me.”
She shook her head. “You’re too hard. Everyone—we’re all…We think you’re too hard.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
It’s my fault.
Amy spun, shouted out toward the vines again. “Shut up!”
“You’ve talked about it?” Jeff asked. “About me?”
“Please,” Amy said. “Just stop.” She was shaking her head once more, and now he was certain of it; she was crying. “Can’t you stop, honey? Please?” She held out her hand.
Take it,he thought. But he made no move to do this. There was a history here, a well-trod path upon which conflict tended to unfold between them. When they argued, no matter what the topic, Amy would eventually grow upset—she’d weep; she’d retreat—and Jeff, however long he might resist the pull, would end up shuffling forward to soothe her, to pet her, to whisper endearments and assure her of his love. He was always, always, always the one to apologize; it was never Amy, no matter who might be at fault. And this was no different: it was “Can’t you stop?” that she’d been saying, notcan’t I, or evencan’t we. Jeff was tired of it—tired at large, tired down into his bones—and he vowed to himself that he wasn’t going to do it. Not here, not now. She was the one at fault; she was the one who needed to stop, who needed to step forward and apologize, not him.
At some point, without his noticing the exact moment, the vine had fallen silent.
It would be dark soon. Another five or ten minutes, Jeff guessed, and they’d be blind with it. They ought to have talked things through, ought to have set up a watch schedule, doled out another ration of food and water. Even now, in this final waning of light, they ought to have been up and doing. “Too hard,” Amy had said. “We think you’re too hard.” He was working to save them, and behind his back they were gossiping, complaining.
Fuck her,Jeff thought.Fuck them all.
He turned away, left Amy standing with her hand held out before her. He stepped to the lean-to, sat down beside it, in the mud, facing Pablo. The Greek’s eyes were shut, his mouth hanging partway open. The smell he was giving off was almost unbearable. They ought to move him, Jeff knew, lift him free from that disgusting sleeping bag—sodden and stinking with his body’s effusions. They ought to wash him, too, ought to irrigate the seared stumps, flush them free of dirt. They had enough water now; they could afford to do this. But the light was failing even as Jeff thought these things, and he knew they could never do it in the dark. It was Amy’s fault, this missed opportunity—Amy’s and Stacy’s and Eric’s. They’d distracted him; they’d wasted his time. And now Pablo would have to wait until morning.
The stumps were still bleeding—not heavily, just a steady ooze—they needed to be washed and then bandaged. There was no gauze, of course, nothing sterile; Jeff would have to dig through the backpacks again, search for a clean shirt, hope that this might suffice. Maybe he could use the sewing kit, too, a needle and thread. He could search out the still-leaking blood vessels and tie them off one by one. And then there was Eric to think of also: Jeff could stitch up the wound in his side. He turned, glanced at Amy. She was still standing in the center of the clearing, motionless; she hadn’t even lowered her hand. She was waiting for him to relent. But he wasn’t going to do it.
“Tell me you’re sorry,” he said.
“Excuse me?” The light was fading enough that it was already difficult to see her expression. He was being a child, he knew. He was as bad as she was. But he couldn’t stop.
“Say you’re sorry.”
She lowered her hand.
He persisted: “Say it.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For stealing the water. For getting drunk.”
Amy wiped at her face, a gesture of weariness. She sighed. “Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Come on—”
“Say it, Amy.”
There was a long pause; he could sense her wavering. Then, in something close to a monotone, she gave it to him: “I’m sorry for stealing the water. I’m sorry for getting drunk.”
Enough,he said to himself.Stop it here. But he didn’t. Even as he thought these words, he heard himself begin to speak. “You don’t sound like you mean it.”
“Jesus Christ, Jeff. You can’t—”
“Say it like you mean it, or it doesn’t count.”
She sighed again, louder this time, almost a scoff. Then she shook her head, turned, walked off toward the far edge of the clearing, where she dropped heavily to the ground. She sat with her back to him, bent into herself, her head in her hands. The light was nearly gone; Jeff felt he could almost see it departing, draining from the air around them. He watched Amy’s hunched form as it faded into the shadows, merging with the dark mass of vegetation beyond her. It se
emed as if her shoulders were moving. Was she crying? He strained to hear, but the phlegmy rattle of Pablo’s breathing obscured all other sounds within the clearing.
Go to her,he said to himself.Do it now. Yet he didn’t move. He felt trapped, immobilized. He’d read once how to pick a lock, and he believed that he could do it if he ever needed to. He knew how to break free from the trunk of a car, how to climb out of a well, how to flee a burning building. But none of that helped him here. No, he couldn’t think of a way to escape this present situation. He needed Amy to be the one, needed her to be the first to move.
He was certain of it now: she was crying. Rather than softening him, though, this had the opposite effect. She was playing on his sympathies, he decided, manipulating him. All he’d asked of her was that she say she was sorry, say it in a genuine way. Was that such an unreasonable thing? Maybe she wasn’t crying; maybe she was shivering, because she must be wet, of course, and cold. As he watched, trying to decide between tears and the shivering, he saw her tilt to her side, lie down in the mud. This, too, ought to have elicited sympathy in him, he knew. But, once again, he felt only anger. If she was wet, if she was cold, why didn’t she do something about it? Why didn’t she get up and go into the tent, search through one of the backpacks, find herself some dry clothes? Did she need him to tell her to do this? Well, he wasn’t going to. If she wanted to lie in the mud, shivering or crying, or both, that was her choice. She could do it all night, if that was what she desired, because he wasn’t going to go to her.
Later, much later, after the sun had set, after Mathias had returned from the bottom of the hill and joined the others in the tent, after the sky had cleared and the moon had risen, its pale sliver shaved one step closer to nothingness, after Jeff’s clothes had dried on him, stiffening slightly in the process, after Pablo’s breathing had stopped at one point for a full thirty seconds before starting again with an abrupt gagging rattle, like a bedsheet being torn in half, after Jeff had thought a dozen times about going to Amy, rousing her, sending her into the tent, only to decide against it on each successive occasion, after he’d sat through his entire shift, and most of the shift to follow, not moving, wanting her to be the first to stir, to come and beg his forgiveness, or even, more simply, just wordlessly embrace him, Amy staggered to her feet. Or not quite: she rose, took a half step toward him, then fell to her knees and began to throw up. She was leaning forward on one hand; the other was pressed to her mouth, as if to hold back the vomit. It was too dark to see her properly. Jeff could make out her outline, the shadowy bulk of her body, but nothing more. It was his ears rather than his eyes that told him what was happening. He could hear her gagging, coughing, spitting. She tried to stand again, with the same result—another half step before she dropped back to her knees, her right hand still clutching at her mouth while her left seemed to reach toward him through the darkness. Was she calling for him? Beneath the gagging, coughing, spitting, did he hear her say his name? He wasn’t certain—not certain enough at least—he didn’t move. And now both her hands were pressing at her mouth, as if to dam that flow of vomit. But it wasn’t possible, of course. The gagging continued, the choking and coughing. Jeff could smell it now, even over Pablo’s stench—the tequila, the bile—and it kept coming.
Go to her,he thought yet again.
And then:You’re too hard. We all think you’re too hard.
He watched as she hunched low, her hands still pressed to her mouth. She hesitated like that, going silent finally: no more coughing or gagging or choking. For nearly a minute, she didn’t move at all. Then, very slowly, she tilted over onto her side in the mud. She lay perfectly still, curled into a fetal position; Jeff assumed she’d fallen back asleep. He knew he was supposed to go help her now, wipe her clean like an infant, guide her back into the tent. But this was her own fault, wasn’t it? So why should he be the one to pick up the pieces? He wasn’t going to do it. He was going to let her lie there, let her wake at dawn with vomit caked to her face. He could still smell it, and he felt his own stomach turning in response to the stench—not just his stomach but his feelings, too. Anger and disgust and the deepest sort of impatience—they kept him by the little lean-to through the night, watching but not doing.I should check on her, he thought—how many times? A dozen, maybe more.I should make sure she’s okay. He didn’t do it, though; he sat watching her, thinking the words, recognizing their wisdom, their rightness, but not doing, all night not doing.
It was nearing dawn before he finally stirred. He’d nodded off some, his head bobbing in and out of consciousness as the moon climbed and climbed above him, then crested and began to sink. It had almost set before he managed to rouse himself, struggling to his feet, stretching, his blood feeling thick in his veins. Even then he didn’t go to Amy, though; not that it would’ve mattered. He stared at her for a long moment—her still, shadowy mass in the center of the clearing—then shuffled to the tent, unzipped the flap, and slipped quietly inside.
Stacy had heard Jeff and Amy shouting at each other. It had been impossible to make out their words over the rain drumming against the tent, but she could tell that they were arguing. The vine had a part in it, too; she could hear it mimicking Amy’s voice.
Yelling,It’s my fault.
And then:I’m the one, aren’t I?
It was just she and Eric in the tent. The storm made it too dark to see much. Stacy didn’t know what time it was, but she could sense that the day was leaking away from them. Another night—she didn’t know how they were going to manage it.
“If I sleep, will you watch over me?” Eric asked.
Stacy’s thoughts felt muddy from too much alcohol. Everything seemed to be moving a little more slowly than it ought to. She stared at Eric through the dimness, struggling to process his question. The rain continued, the tent sagging beneath it. Jeff and Amy had stopped their yelling. “All night?” she asked.
Eric shook his head. “An hour—can you stay up for an hour? I just need an hour.”
She was tired, she realized, as if simply talking about it was making it so. Tired and hungry and very, very drunk. “Why can’t we both sleep?”
Eric gestured toward the supplies piled against the tent’s rear wall. “It’ll come back. It’ll push its way in again. One of us has to stay awake.”
He means the vine,Stacy thought, and for a moment she seemed to sense it there, hidden in the shadows, listening, watching, waiting for them to fall asleep. “Okay,” she said. “An hour, then I’ll wake you.”
Eric lay down on his back. He was still pressing the balled-up shirt to his side. It was too dark in the tent to tell if the bleeding had stopped. Stacy sat beside him, took his free hand; it was clammy to the touch. They should dry off, she knew; they should change out of their wet clothes. She was cold, still shivering, but she didn’t say anything, made no move toward the backpacks. The archaeologists were all dead, along with whoever might’ve come before or after them, and—stupidly—their belongings felt contagious to Stacy. She didn’t want to wear their clothes.
Eric fell asleep, his hand going slack in hers. Stacy was startled by the rapidity with which he managed it. He began to snore, and it sounded oddly like Pablo’s watery rasp—frighteningly so. Stacy almost woke him, wanting him to roll over and fall silent, but then, abruptly, he stopped of his own accord. That was scary, too, in a different way, and she leaned down, her ear right above his face, to make sure he was breathing.
He was, of course.
Bent low like that, her head nearly at a horizontal, only a foot or so above the tent’s floor, it seemed easier to keep dropping than to struggle upward again. She lay beside him, pressing close. The rain was passing—it was nothing but a drizzle now—and it felt almost peaceful in the tent. Stacy shut her eyes. She wasn’t going to sleep—how could she have? It wasn’t even night yet. Amy would be in soon, and they could sit up talking together, keeping their voices quiet, maybe even whispering, so that they wouldn’t wake Eric. She was tired,
it was true, but she’d given him her word, and she knew the vine was lurking all about them, just waiting for her to lower her guard. No, she wasn’t going to sleep. All she was going to do was shut her eyes for a moment, so that she could listen to that soft pattering on the nylon above their heads, and perhaps daydream a little, imagining she was somewhere else.
When she opened her eyes again, it was very dark in the tent—pitch-dark, too dark to see. Someone was standing over her, shaking her shoulder. “Wake up, Stacy,” this person kept saying. “It’s your shift.”
It was Jeff’s voice, she realized. She didn’t move, just lay on her back, peering up at him through the darkness. Things were returning to her, but too slowly to make much sense of them. The rain. Amy shouting “Slut” at her. Jeff and Amy arguing. Eric asking her to watch over him. She felt hungover, but still drunk, too—a painful combination. Her head not only ached; it felt spillable in some strange way, as if, were she to move too quickly in one direction or another, she might pour out of herself. It wasn’t something she could think clearly about; she simply knew that she didn’t want to stir, that it would be perilous to do so. Her bladder was full to the point of discomfort, but even that wasn’t sufficient to impel her into motion. “No,” she said.
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