The Ruins (41 page)

 End
it. Cut his throat. Smother him.

 The
longer we stay here, the better its chances.

 It
mimics things. It's not really laughter.

 Then
the whole hillside seemed to erupt at once—there were giggles
and guffaws and chuckles and snickers—it went on and on and
on. Interspersed with this was his own voice, shouting, as if trying to
silence the noise, repeating the same phrase over and over
again:
It's
not really laughter…. It's not really
laughter…. It's not really laughter….

 Jeff
retrieved the Frisbee from the tangle of supplies, the empty canteen,
carried them back across the hilltop toward the orange tent. His idea
was that as the Frisbee filled with rain, he could pour it into the
canteen, the plastic jug, the bottle they'd been using to
collect their urine. It wasn't the best plan, but it was all
he could think of.

 Amy
and Stacy and Eric hadn't moved. The vine had sent forth
another tendril; it was feasting on Pablo's vomit now,
audibly sucking at it. The three of them were watching, slack-jawed:
drunk. When the vine finished with the little puddle, it retreated back
across the clearing. No one moved; no one said a thing. Jeff felt his
anger stirring at the sight of this—their impassivity, their
collective stupor—but he didn't speak. That was
over now, the urge to yell. He set the Frisbee beside the open toolbox,
then emptied Mathias's water bottle of their urine. The
others watched him, silent, all of them listening to the vines as they
quieted for a moment, only to jump again in volume, still laughing. The
sound of strangers, Jeff assumed.
Cees
Steenkamp
, maybe. The
girl whom
Henrich
had
met on the beach. All these piles of bones, their flesh stripped clean,
their souls long ago
unhoused
,
but their laughter preserved here, remembered by the vine, and called
forth now, wielded like a weapon.

 It's
not really laughter…. It's not really
laughter…. It's not really laughter….

 There
were still some strips of nylon left over from the blue tent, and Jeff
fiddled with them now, trying to think of a way to use them to catch
the rain, or store the water once they'd collected it. He
should've thought of this earlier, he knew; he
could've used the sewing kit he'd found in the
orange tent to stitch the lengths of nylon together into a giant pouch.
But now he no longer had the time.

 
Tomorrow,
he
thought.

 And
then the rain began to fall.

 It
came in a rush, as if a trapdoor had swung open in the clouds above
them, releasing it. There was no warning, no preparatory drizzle; one
moment the sky was merely brooding, dark gray, with that held-breath
quality the tropics often have before a storm's approach, a
breeze lightly stirring the vines, and then, seemingly without
transition, the air was full of falling water. Daylight faltered, took
on a greenish hue one step short of darkness; the hard-packed earth
beneath them turned instantly to mud. It felt difficult to breathe.

 The
plants fell silent.

 The
Frisbee filled in seconds. Jeff poured the water into the canteen, let
the Frisbee fill once more, with equal rapidity, and poured again. Then
he held the canteen out to Stacy. He had to shout to be heard over the
rain, which sounded almost like a roar now. "Drink!" he yelled. His hat, his clothes, his shoes
were all soaked completely through, clinging to him, growing heavy.

 He
poured the water from the Frisbee into the plastic jug, let it fill,
poured again, let it fill, poured again. When he was finished with the
jug, he started in on Mathias's empty bottle.

 Stacy
drank from the canteen, then passed it to Eric, who was still lying on
his back, shirtless, the rain spattering mud across his body. He sat up
awkwardly, clutching at his side, took the canteen.

 "As
much as you can!" Jeff shouted at him.

 
Soap,
he
was
thinking. He should've checked the backpacks for a bar of
soap. They would've at least had time to wash their faces and
hands before the storm passed—a small thing, he knew, but he
was certain it would've lifted everyone's
spirits.
Tomorrow
,
he
thought.
It
came today, so why shouldn't it come again tomorrow?

 He
finished with Mathias's bottle, held out his hand for the
canteen, refilled it, then passed it to Amy.

 The
rain kept pouring down on them. It was surprisingly cold. Jeff began to
shiver; the others did, too. It was the lack of food, he assumed.
Already, they didn't have the resources to fight the chill.

 The
Frisbee filled again, and he lifted it to his lips, drank directly from
it. The rain had a sweetness that surprised
him.
Sugar
water,
he thought, his head seeming to clear as he drank, his
body to take on an added solidity, a heft and gravity he
hadn't realized he'd been lacking. He filled the
Frisbee, drank, filled the Frisbee, drank, his stomach swelling,
growing pleasantly, almost painfully taut. It was the best water
he'd ever tasted.

 Amy
had stopped drinking. She and Stacy were standing there, hunched,
hugging themselves, shivering. Eric had lain back down again. His eyes
were shut, his mouth open to the rain. His legs and torso were growing
muddier and muddier; it was in his hair, too, and on his face.

 "Get
him into the tent!" Jeff shouted.

 He
took the canteen from Amy, started to fill it once more as he watched
her and Stacy pull Eric to his feet, guide him toward the tent.

 The
rain began to slacken. It was still falling steadily, but the downpour
was over. Another five or ten minutes, Jeff knew, and it would stop
altogether. He stepped across the clearing to check on Pablo. The lean-
to hadn't done much to shelter him; he was just as wet as the
rest of them. And, like Eric, he'd been back-spattered with
mud—his shirt, his face, his arms, his stumps. His eyes
remained shut; his breathing continued its irregular rasping course.
Oddly, he wasn't shivering, and Jeff wondered if this were a
bad sign, if a body could become so ravaged that even trembling might
be beyond its strength. He crouched, rested his hand on
Pablo's forehead, nearly flinched at the heat coming off him.
Everything was a bad sign, of course; there were nothing but bad signs
here. He thought of the vine, how it had echoed his own
voice:
End
it. Cut his throat. Smother him.
And he held the words in his
mind, teetering on the edge of action. It would be easy enough, after
all; he was alone here in the clearing. No one would ever know. He
could simply lean forward, pinch shut Pablo's nostrils, cover
his mouth, and count to—what? A
hundred?
Mercy
:
this was what he was thinking as he lifted his hand from
Pablo's forehead, moved it down his face. He held it there,
an inch or so above the Greek's nose, not touching him yet,
just playing with the idea—
ninety-seven,
ninety-eight, ninety-nine
—and then Amy was pushing
her way out of the tent, carrying her drunkenness with her, stumbling
slightly as she stepped into the clearing. Her hair was limp from the
rain; there was a smear of mud on her left cheek.

 "Is
he okay?" she asked.

 Jeff
stood up quickly, hating the slur in her voice, feeling that urge to
shout again, to sober her with his anger. He fought the temptation,
though, not answering—
how could he answer?
—and
moved back across the clearing toward the open toolbox.

 Which,
inexplicably, was nearly empty.

 Jeff
stared down at it, struggling to make sense of this development.

 "There's
a hole," Amy said.

 And
it was true. When Jeff lifted the box, he revealed a thin stream of
water pouring steadily from its bottom, which had a two-inch crack in
it. He'd missed it somehow earlier, when he'd
emptied the box of its sewing supplies. He'd been rushing; he
hadn't taken the time to examine it. If he had, he
might've been able to fix it before the rain came—
the
duct
tape,
he
thought—but now it was too late. The rain had come; the rain
was leaving. Even as he thought these words, it was falling more and
more gently; in another minute or so, it would stop altogether.
Disgusted with himself, he threw the toolbox, sent it tumbling away
from him toward the tent.

 Amy
looked appalled. "What the fuck?" she said, almost
shouting. "There was still water in it!"

 She
ran to the toolbox, set it upright again. It was a pointless gesture,
Jeff knew. The storm had passed; the sky was beginning to lighten.
There wasn't going to be any more rain—not today at
least. "You're one to talk," he said.

 Amy
turned toward him, wiping at her face. "What?"

 "About
wasting water."

 She
shook her head. "Don't."

 "Don't
what?"

 "Not
now."

 "
Don't
what
,
Amy?"

 "Lecture
me."

 "But
you're fucking up. You know that, don't
you?"

 She
didn't respond, just stared at him with a sad, put-upon
expression, as if he were the one at fault here. He felt his fury
rising in response to it.

 "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
are
drinking
.
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't
steal
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,
not
can't
I,
or
even
can'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.