The Ruins (22 page)

 Stacy
stopped singing. She felt stiff; she wanted to stand up and stretch,
but she was afraid to let go of Pablo's hand, worried that
she might wake him. She shut her eyes—
just
resting,
she
told herself—and listened to his breathing, wishing it
didn't sound like that, counting his inhalations, matching
them with her
own:
one
,
two, three, four
…

 Suddenly,
Mathias was beside her, crouching in the darkness, his hand on her
forearm, that cool touch, and she was blinking at him, confused,
slightly alarmed, wondering who he was, what he wanted, until
everything came back with a snapping sensation, and she realized
she'd fallen asleep. She felt flustered, embarrassed,
derelict in her duty. She struggled into a sitting position. "I'm sorry," she said.

 Mathias
seemed startled by this. "For what?" he asked.

 "I
fell asleep."

 "It's
okay."

 "I
didn't mean to," she said. "I was singing
to him, and he—"

 "
Shh
."
Mathias gave her
arm a pat. Then he took his hand away, producing a tilting sensation in
her chest, a subtle shift in gravity; she felt herself leaning toward
him, had to jerk herself back. "He's
fine," Mathias said. "Look." He nodded
toward Pablo, who was still asleep, his mouth slightly open, his head
canted away from them. He didn't seem fine, though; he seemed
ravaged, as if something were sitting on his chest, slowly sucking the
life from him. "It's been two hours,"
Mathias said.

 Stacy
lifted her arm, peered down at Amy's watch. He was right; she
was done now. She could shuffle back to the tent and sleep till
morning. But she still felt ashamed. She didn't move. "How did you wake up?" she asked.

 He
shrugged, dropped from his crouch into a sitting position at her side. "I can do that. Tell myself when to wake up.
Henrich
could, too. And our
father. I don't know how."

 Stacy
turned, watched his profile for a moment. "Listen,"
she said finally, stumbling a bit, groping for the words. No one had
taught her how to do this. "About your brother. I wanted, you
know…to tell you how—"

 Mathias
waved her into silence. "It's all right,"
he said.

 "I
mean, it must be—"

 "It's
okay. Really."

 Stacy
didn't know what else to say. She wanted to offer him her
sympathy, wanted him to tell her how he felt, but she
couldn't find the words to make this happen. She'd
known him for a week, had barely spoken to him in this time.
She'd seen him staring at her that night she'd
kissed Don Quixote, had felt frightened by his gaze, anxious that she
was being judged, and then he'd surprised her by being so
nice in the bus station, when her hat and sunglasses were
stolen—he'd stopped and crouched and touched her
arm. She had no idea who he was, what he was like, what he thought of
her, but his brother was lying dead at the base of the hill, and she
wanted to reach toward him somehow, wanted him to cry so that she could
soothe him—to take him in her arms, maybe, rock him back and
forth. But he wasn't going to cry, of course; she could see
the impossibility of this. He was sitting right beside her, yet he felt
too far away to touch. She had no idea what he was feeling.

 "You
should go to sleep," he said.

 Stacy
nodded but didn't move. "Why do you think they did
it?" she asked.

 "Who?"

 She
waved toward the base of the hill. "The Mayans."

 Mathias
was silent for a long moment, considering this. Then he shrugged. "I guess they didn't want him to leave."

 "Like
us," she said.

 "That's
right." He nodded. "Like us."

 Pablo
stirred, shifting his head, and they both stared down at him. Then
Mathias reached out, patted her arm again, the cool touch of his
fingertips.

 "Don't,"
he said.

 "Don't
what?"

 He
made a wringing motion with his hands. "Twist yourself up.
Try to be like an animal. Like a dog. Rest when you have the chance.
Eat and drink if there's food and water. Survive each moment.
That's all.
Henrich
—he
was impulsive. He mulled over things, and then he lunged at them. He
thought too much and too little, all at the same time. We
can't be like that."

 Stacy
was silent. His voice had risen toward the end, sounding angry,
startling her.

 Mathias
made an abrupt gesture, waving it all away. "I'm
sorry," he said. "I'm just talking. I
don't even know what I'm saying."

 "It's
okay," Stacy said,
thinking,
This
is how he cries
. She was about to reach toward him, when he
shook his head, stopping her.

 "No,"
he said. "It's not. Not at all."

 Nearly
a minute passed then, while Stacy tried out words and phrases inside
her head, searching for the right combination but not finding it.
Pablo's ragged breathing was the only thing to break the
silence. Finally, Mathias waved her toward the tent again.

 "You
really ought to go back to sleep."

 Stacy
nodded, stood up, feeling stiff, a little dizzy. She touched his
shoulder. She rested her hand there for a moment, squeezed, then crept
back toward the tent.

A
my jerked awake, her pulse in
her throat. She sat up, struggling to orient herself, to understand
what had yanked her so abruptly out of sleep. She thought it
must've been a noise, but if so, it seemed to be one only she
had heard. The others were still lying motionless, eyes shut, their
breath coming deep and steady. She could count the bodies in the
darkness: Eric's and Stacy's and Jeff's.
Mathias would be outside, she supposed, keeping watch over Pablo. So
everyone was accounted for.

 She
sat listening, waiting for the noise to come again, her heart slowly
calming.

 Silence.

 It
must've been a dream, then, though Amy couldn't
remember any details of it; there was simply that instant sense of
panic as she sat up, her blood feeling too thick for her veins, moving
too fast. She lay back down, shut her eyes. But she was awake now,
still listening, still frightened—even though she
couldn't have said of what—and thirsty, too, her
lips sticking together with a gummy, crusty feeling, a foul, cottony
taste in her mouth. Gradually, as she rested there, wishing for sleep
but sleep not coming, her thirst began to triumph over her fear, a big
dog barking a smaller dog into silence. She reached with her foot,
stretching like a ballerina, and touched the plastic water jug sitting
against the back wall of the tent. If she could just have a sip of
water, a single small swallow to wash that dreadful taste from her
mouth, Amy believed she'd be able to fall back asleep. And
wasn't that important? They'd need to be rested in
the morning, need to be up and about doing whatever it was that Jeff
felt ought to be done to ensure their survival here. Walking through
the vines with rags tied to their ankles. Digging a hole to distill
their urine. One very tiny mouthful—was this too much to ask?
Of course, they'd agreed not to drink anything more until
morning. When they were all awake and rested, they'd gather
around and ration out their food and water. But what good did this do
Amy now, with her gummy lips, her sewer mouth, while the others lay on
either side of her, blissfully sunk in sleep?

 She
sat up again, squinted toward the rear of the tent, struggling to
discern the jug in the darkness. She couldn't do it; she
could see the pile of things there, a shadowy mass, but
couldn't make out the individual items, the backpacks, the
toolbox, the hiking boots, the plastic jug. She'd felt it
with her foot, though: she knew where it was. All she'd need
to do would be crawl a few feet, groping with her hands to find it.
Then it would simply be a matter of unscrewing its cap, raising the jug
to her lips, tilting back her head. One small swallow—who
could begrudge her this? If Eric, say, were to wake now, begging for a
drink, Amy would gladly offer him one, even if she herself
weren't thirsty. And she was certain the others would feel
the same, would act toward her with a similar spirit of generosity. She
could wake them right now, ask their permission, and they'd
say "Yes, of course." But why should she disturb
them when they all seemed to be sleeping so soundly?

 She
shifted a little closer, still straining to glimpse the jug, careful
not to make any noise.

 Amy
wasn't going to steal any water, of course—no, not
even a sip. Because that was what it would amount to,
wouldn't it? A theft. They didn't have much water,
and—despite Jeff's schemes—they
couldn't be certain of getting more. So if she were to take a
swallow now while the others slept, even the smallest, the daintiest of
sips, it would be that much less water for all of them to share. Amy
had seen enough survival movies—the plane crashes, the
castaways, the space travelers trapped on distant planets—to
know how there was always someone who grabbed, wild-eyed and swearing,
who wrestled for the last ration, who gulped when others sipped, and
she wasn't going to be that person. Selfish, thinking only of
her own needs. They'd each taken their allotment of water
before they went to sleep, passing the jug from hand to hand, and that
was it, they'd agreed, that was all they'd have
till morning. If the others could wait, why shouldn't she?

 She
edged a little closer. She just wanted to see the jug, maybe touch it,
heft it in her hand, reassure herself with its weight. What harm was
there in this? Especially if it might help her slip back into sleep?

 The
thing was, though, they hadn't really agreed, had they? It
wasn't as if they'd discussed it, or voted on it.
Jeff had simply made the decision, then imposed it on them, and
they'd been too tired to do anything but bow their heads and
accept this. If Amy had been more rested, or less frightened, she
might've spoken up, might've demanded a larger
ration right then and there. And the others might've added
their voices, too.

 No,
you couldn't really call it an agreement.

 And
what was going to happen in the morning? They'd pass the jug
around again, wouldn't they? They'd all take their
allotted sip. But since Amy was thirsty now, why shouldn't
she claim her portion a few hours earlier than the others? This
wouldn't be grabbing or stealing; it would be like taking an
advance on one's salary. When the jug was handed to her in
the morning, she'd simply shake her head, explain that
she'd grown thirsty during the night—terribly
thirsty—and so had already consumed her morning's
ration.

 She
shifted another foot forward, and she could see it now, make out its
shape amid the large jumble there against the tent's rear
wall. All she'd need to do was tilt forward onto her hands
and knees, stretch her arm out, grasp the jug by its handle. She sat
for a long moment, hesitating. In her mind, she was still debating, was
even beginning to lean away from the idea, telling herself that she
should just wait till morning like everyone else, that she was being a
baby, and then suddenly—even as she was thinking these
thoughts—her body was moving closer to the jug, her hand
reaching for it, lifting it toward her, unscrewing its cap. Everything
was happening in a rush now, as if someone might call out to stop her.
She lifted the jug to her mouth, took her small sip, but it
wasn't enough, not nearly enough, and she raised the jug
higher, pouring the water down her throat: a long, gulping swallow,
then a second one, the water spilling down her chin.

 She
lowered the jug, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She was
twisting the cap back onto the jug when she glanced guiltily at the
shadowed forms of the others, Eric and Stacy both lost in sleep, Jeff
peering toward her through the darkness. They stared at each other for
a long moment. She thought he was going to speak, berate her in some
way, but he didn't. It was dark enough that she could almost
convince herself that his eyes weren't open after all, that
it was just a trick of perception, her conscience tugging at her, but
then he shook his head, once—less in admonition, it seemed to
Amy, than revulsion—and rolled away from her.

 Amy
returned the jug to its resting place against the rear wall, crawled
back to her spot. "I was thirsty," she whispered.
She felt like crying, but she was angry, too, a terrible cocktail of
emotion: guilt and fury and shame. And relief, too: the water in her
mouth, her throat, her stomach.

 Jeff
didn't respond. He remained perfectly silent, perfectly
still, and this felt worse to Amy than anything he might've
said. She wasn't worth the trouble of a
response—that was what he was telling her.

 "Fuck
off," Amy said, not loudly, but loudly enough. "All
right, Jeff? Just fuck off." She could feel tears coming now;
she didn't try to stop them.

 "What?"
Stacy asked, befuddled, still asleep.

 Amy
didn't answer her. She lay curled into herself, crying
softly, wanting to lash out and hit Jeff, pummel his shoulders, wanting
him to turn and tell her it was okay, that she hadn't done
anything wrong, that he understood, forgave her, that it was nothing,
nothing at all, but he lay there with his back to
her—sleeping now, she thought, like Stacy and Eric, all of
them leaving her alone here, awake in the dark, her face damp with
tears.

T
he sun had risen. That was the
first thing Eric noticed when he opened his eyes, the light filtering
through the orange nylon of the tent. It already felt hot,
too—that was the second thing—he was sweaty,
dry-mouthed. He lifted his head, glanced about. Stacy was sleeping at
his side. And then, beyond her, was Amy, curled into a tight ball.
Mathias was gone. Jeff, too.