The Ruins (37 page)

 Stacy
turned toward her, pleased. "I don't have the other
one yet, do I? With the knees? Let me try again." She resumed
her imaginary basketball game, just dribbling at first, trying out
different leg movements, searching for the right effect. Then,
abruptly, she seemed to get it, an awkward sort of grace, like a
ballerina with numb feet. She ran to the far end of the clearing, did
another
layup
, before
coming quickly back toward Amy, playing defense.

 Eric
stirred. He'd been lying on his side, curled into a ball, and
now he sat up, watching Stacy. He didn't look well. Amy
supposed this was true for all of them. He was hollow-eyed, unshaven.
He looked like a refugee: hungry, worn-out, fleeing some disaster. His
shirt hung off him in tatters; the wounds on his legs seemed incapable
of closing. He watched Stacy dribbling and passing and shooting, his
expression oddly vacant, a waiting-room look, someone in an ER, staring
at a television whose volume was too low to hear, waiting for a nurse
to call his name.

 "She's
playing basketball," Amy said. "But with fake
legs."

 Eric
turned his head, transferring that empty gaze from Stacy to
Amy's face.

 "There
was this girl," Amy said. "She fell under a train.
But she could still play basketball." She knew she
wasn't saying it right, was just confusing the matter. It
didn't seem to matter, though, because Eric nodded.

 "Oh,"
he said. He held out his hand, and she passed him the bottle.

 They
watched Stacy play another point, and then, when she finally
stopped—out of breath, sweating with the
exertion—Amy applauded. She was feeling better and better for
some reason, and determined not to let the feeling slip away. "Do the stewardess!" she called.

 Stacy
tensed her face into a stiff, exaggerated smile, and then she began,
silently, to work her way through a preflight orientation,
demonstrating how to use a seat belt, where the exits were, how to don
an oxygen mask, all of her gestures clipped and robotic. She was
mimicking the stewardess from their flight into
Cancún
.
She'd done it for them the night they'd arrived,
after they'd dropped their things off at their rooms and met
on the beach, where they sat together in a loose circle, sipping
bottles of beer. This was before they'd met the Greeks,
before Mathias, too. They were still pale, a little weary from the
trip, but pleased to be there—a happy time. And
they'd laughed, all of them, at Stacy's
performance, drinking their beer, feeling the sand beneath them, still
warm from the day's sun, and listening to the sound of the
surf, the music drifting toward them from the hotel
terrace—yes, a happy time. And perhaps Amy was trying to
reclaim that now by asking Stacy to mimic the stewardess once again,
trying to prod them back toward that innocence, that ignorance of this
terrible place into which they'd somehow stumbled. It
wasn't working, of course. Not that it was Stacy's
fault: She had the smile down, the tense gestures—
she
was
the
stewardess. It was Eric and Amy who'd changed, who were
failing this effort at reclamation. They watched; Amy even managed a
laugh, but there was a sadness in it that she couldn't keep
out.

 They
saved the
knees,
she
thought.

 That
first night on the beach, they'd each offered their
contributions. They were good at this sort of thing, had all come from
the same type of background—summer camps and ski
trips—they knew what to do under a starry sky, or around a
campfire, how to entertain one another. They each had their appointed
roles. Stacy did her mimicry. Jeff taught them things, told them facts
he'd read in the guidebook on the flight down. Eric made up
funny stories, imagining how their trip might unfold, creating
outrageous scenarios, making them laugh. And Amy sang. She had a nice
voice, she knew; not a particularly strong one, but quietly adept,
perfect for those campfires, those starry skies.

 Stacy
returned across the clearing now, sat beside them; she took back the
umbrella. Her shirt was torn, Amy noticed; she could see her breast. It
was true for all of them: their clothes were rapidly being eaten into
shreds by that green webbing of vine. There was nothing you could do
about it; you brushed it away, but a few minutes later it was back
again. And every time you swiped at it, the vine bled its sap onto your
skin, burning you. Their hands looked scarred—it hurt to pick
things up. They could dig into the backpacks, she supposed, find
themselves new shirts and pants, but there was something creepy about
this, wearing other people's things, dead people's,
those mounds of green scattered across the hillside, and Amy hoped
she'd be able to avoid this eventuality as long as possible.
It felt like a surrender in some way, a defeat; as long as rescue
seemed imminent, what was the point in replacing her clothes?

 Eric
kept rubbing at his chest. There was a spot right at the base of his
rib cage that he couldn't seem to stop touching.
He'd press at it, then dig with his fingers, then gently
massage it. Amy knew what he was doing, knew that he thought the vine
was inside him, and it was beginning to make her anxious, his constant
probing; she wanted him to stop.

 "Tell
us something funny, Eric," she said.

 "Funny?"

 She
nodded, smiling, trying to prod him on, to distract him from that
feeling inside his chest, distract all three of them. "Make
up a story."

 Eric
shook his head. "I can't think of
anything."

 "Tell
us what'll happen when we get home," Stacy said.

 They
watched him take another swallow of tequila, his eyes watering from it.
He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, then recapped the
bottle. "Well, we'll be famous, won't we?
At least for a while?"

 They
both nodded. Of course they'd be famous.

 "The
cover
of
People
magazine, maybe," Eric continued, warming to the idea. "
Time,
too
,
probably. And then
somebody'll
want to buy the film rights. We'll have to be smart there,
stay together, all of us signing something, some document, agreeing to
sell the story as a group—we'll get more money that
way. We'll need a lawyer, I guess, or an agent."

 "They'll
make a movie out of it?" Stacy asked. She looked excited by
the idea, but surprised, too.

 "That's
right."

 "Who'll
play me?"

 Eric
peered at Stacy, considered. Then he smiled, waving at her chest. "Your tit's hanging out, you know."

 Stacy
glanced down, adjusted her shirt. There wasn't really enough
of it left to cover her breast, but she didn't seem to care. "Seriously. Who'll play me?'

 "First,
you have to decide who you are."

 "Who
I am?"

 "'Cause
they'll have to change us some, you know. Make us more into
characters. They'll need a hero, a villain—that
sort of thing. See what I'm saying?"

 Stacy
nodded. "And which am I?"

 "Well,
there are two female parts, right? So one of you will have to be the
good girl, the prissy one, and the other
one'll
have to be the slut." He thought about this, then shrugged. "I guess Amy would be the prissy one, don't you
think?"

 Stacy
frowned, taking this in. She didn't say anything.

 "So
you'd, you know—you'd be the
slut."

 "Fuck
you, Eric." She sounded angry.

 "What?
I'm just saying—"

 "You're
the villain, then. If I have to be the—"

 Eric
shook his head. "No way. I'm the funny guy.
I'm the Adam
Sandler
character. Or Jim Carrey. The one who shouldn't be there, who
came along by mistake, who keeps stumbling into the others, tripping
over things. I'm the comic relief."

 "Then
who's the villain?"

 "Mathias
is the villain—definitely. Those scary Germans.
They'll have him lure us here on purpose. The
vine'll
be some sort
of Nazi experiment gone awry. His father was a scientist, maybe, and
he's brought us here to feed daddy's
plants."

 "And
the hero?"

 "Jeff—no
doubt about that. Bruce Willis, stoically saving the day. An
ex–Boy Scout." He turned to Amy. "Was
Jeff a Boy Scout? I bet Jeff was a Boy Scout."

 Amy
nodded. "An Eagle Scout."

 They
laughed at this, all three of them, though it wasn't a joke.
He really had been an Eagle Scout. His mother had a framed clipping
from the local paper hanging in their front hall; it showed Jeff in his
uniform, shaking hands with the governor of Massachusetts. Amy felt an
odd tightness in her chest when she thought of this, a sudden sense of
warmth toward him, a protectiveness. She remembered the way it had been
down in the shaft, the vines whipping through the dark, grabbing at
her, pulling her toward that hole. She'd glimpsed the bones
at the bottom before the torch fluttered out; other people had died
there—she might've, too. And it wasn't
because of any skill or foresight on her own part that she'd
survived. Jeff had saved her. Jeff would save them all, if
they'd only let him. They shouldn't be laughing at
him.

 "It's
not funny," she said, but her voice came out too quietly, and
the other two were too drunk. They didn't seem to hear her.

 "Who's
going to play me?" Stacy repeated.

 Eric
waved the question aside. "It doesn't matter.
Somebody who looks good with her tit hanging out of her
shirt."

 "You'll
be the fat one," Stacy said, sounding angry again. "The fat, sweaty one."

 They
were going to start fighting now, Amy realized—she recognized
the tone. Another exchange or two like that, and they'd begin
to shout at each other. She didn't think she could handle
this—not here, not now. So she tried to distract them. "What about me?" she asked.

 "You?"
Eric said.

 "Who's
going to play me?"

 Eric
pursed his lips, considering this. He uncapped the bottle, took another
sip, then held it out toward Stacy, a peace offering. She accepted it,
tilting her head back, taking a big swallow, almost chugging. She
giggled as she lowered the bottle, pleased with herself, her eyes
shining strangely, looking glazed.

 "Someone
who can sing," Eric said.

 "That's
right." Stacy nodded. "So they can have musical
numbers."

 Eric
was smiling. "A duet with the Boy Scout."

 "Madonna,
maybe."

 Eric
snorted. "Britney Spears."

 "Mandy
Moore."

 They
were both laughing. "Sing for us, Amy," Eric said.

 Amy
was smiling, feeling confused, ready to be affronted. She
couldn't tell if they were laughing at her or if it was
something she should find funny, too. She was just as drunk as they
were, she realized.

 "Sing
‘One is the loneliest number,'" Stacy
said.

 "Yeah,"
Eric nodded. "That's perfect."

 They
were both grinning at her now, waiting. Stacy offered her the bottle,
and Amy took a swallow from it, shutting her eyes. When she opened them
again, they were still waiting. So she started to sing: "One
is the loneliest number that you'll ever do. Two can be as
bad as one. It's the loneliest number since the number one.
No is the saddest experience you'll ever know. Yes,
it's the saddest experience you'll ever know. 'Cause one is the loneliest number that you'll ever
do. One is the loneliest number, worse than two…"
She trailed off, feeling out of breath, dizzy with it. She handed the
bottle to Eric. "I can't remember the
rest," she said. It wasn't true; she just
didn't want to sing anymore. The lyrics were making her sad,
and for a while there she'd been feeling okay—or
almost okay, at least. She didn't want to feel sad.

 Eric
took a long swallow. They were two-thirds of the way through the bottle
now. He clambered to his feet, stepped across the clearing, a little
unsteady in his gait. He bent, picked something up, then came teetering
back toward them. He had the bottle in one hand; in the other, he was
holding the knife. Amy and Stacy both stared at it. Amy
didn't want it to be there, but she couldn't think
of anything to say that might make him put it down. She watched him
spit on its blade, try to clean it on his shirt. Then he waved the
knife toward her. "You can sing it at the end. When
you're the last one left."

 "‘The
last one left?'" Amy asked. She wanted to reach out
and take the knife from him, tried to order her arm to rise, to move in
his direction, yet nothing happened. She was very, very drunk, she
knew—and so tired, too. She wasn't equal to this.

 "When
everyone else is killed off," Eric said.

 Amy
shook her head. "Don't. That's not
funny."

 He
ignored her. "The Boy
Scout'll
live—he's the hero; he has to survive.
You'll just think he's dead. You'll sing
your song, and he'll pop back to life. And then
you'll escape somehow. He'll build a hot-air
balloon out of the tent and you'll float away to
safety."

 "I'll
die?" Stacy said. She seemed alarmed by the possibility,
wide-eyed with it. She was beginning to slur her words. "Why
do I have to die?"

 "The
slut has to die. No question. Because you're bad. You have to
be punished."

 Stacy
looked hurt by this. "What about the funny guy?"

 "He's
the first—he's always the first. And in some stupid
way, too. So people will laugh when he goes."

 "Like
how?"

 "He
gets cut, maybe, and the vine pushes its way into his leg. It eats him
from the inside out."

 Amy
knew what he was going to do next, and she raised her hand, finally, to
stop him. But she was too late. He was doing it—it was done.
He'd lifted his shirt, cut a four-inch slit along the base of
his rib cage. Stacy gasped. Amy sat with her arm held out, uselessly,
before her. A horizontal line of blood crested the lip of
Eric's wound, swept downward across his stomach, soaking into
the waistband of his shorts. He watched it, frowning, probing at the
cut with the point of the knife, prying it farther open, the bleeding
increasing.