The Ruins (45 page)

 Eric
held out his hand. "I'll do it."

 Jeff
shook his head. "Three minutes, Eric. Okay?"

 Eric
hesitated, debating. Finally, he seemed to realize he didn't
have a choice. He lowered his hand. "Please hurry,"
he said.

 Clean
the knife.

 Jeff
returned to the tent, started to dig through the
archaeologists' backpacks, searching for a bar of soap. He
found a toiletry kit zipped into a side pocket; there was a razor
inside, a small can of shaving cream, a toothbrush and paste, a comb, a
stick of deodorant, and—in a little red plastic
box—a bar of soap. He carried the entire kit with him back
out into the clearing, along with a small towel he'd also
found in the backpack, a needle, and a tiny spool of thread.

 The
bar of soap, the towel, the knife, the needle, the thread, the plastic
jug of water—what else was needed?

 He
turned to Mathias, who was sitting now, beside the little lean-to. "Can you build a fire?" he asked.

 "How
big?"

 "Just
a small one. To heat the knife."

 Mathias
stood up, began to move about the clearing, making his preparations.
They'd left the remaining notebooks out in the rain
yesterday; they were still too wet to burn. Mathias disappeared into
the tent, searching for something else to use as fuel. Jeff poured a
small amount of water from the jug onto the towel, then began to rub at
the soap with it, working it into a lather. As he started to scrub at
the dried blood on the knife's blade, Mathias reappeared,
carrying a paperback book, a pair of men's underwear. He
arranged these in the dirt beside Jeff, sprinkling some of the
remaining tequila over them. The book was a Hemingway
novel,
The
Sun Also Rises.
Jeff had read it in high school, the same
edition, the same cover. Looking down at it now, he realized he
couldn't remember a single thing about it.

 "Give
him some of that," Jeff said, pointing at the tequila.

 Mathias
handed the bottle to Eric, who held it in both hands, looking up at
Jeff uncertainly.

 Jeff
nodded, gesturing for him to drink. "For the pain."

 Eric
took a long swallow, paused to catch his breath, then drank again.

 Mathias
was holding the box of matches now. He'd opened it, taken one
of them out. "Tell me when you're ready,"
he said.

 Jeff
poured some water onto the blade, rinsing it. When he was done, he took
the tequila from Eric, set it on the ground. "After I cut it
out, I'm going to sew you up, okay?"

 Eric
shook his head, looking scared. "I don't want to be
sewn up."

 "They
won't close on their own."

 "But
it'll still be in there."

 "I'm
not going to leave any behind, Eric.
I'll—"

 "You
won't be able to see it all. Some of it'll be too
small. And if you sew it inside me—"

 "Listen
to me, all right?" Jeff was fighting to keep his voice
low—reasonable and reassuring. "If we leave the
wounds open, it'll just keep happening. Understand?
You'll fall asleep, and it'll push its way in
again. Is that what you want?"

 Eric
shut his eyes. His face began to twitch. Jeff could see he was
struggling not to cry. "I want to go home," he
said. "That's what I want." He inhaled
deeply, something close to a sob, which he caught at the last moment. "If you sew it up, it'll—"

 "Eric,"
Stacy said.

 Eric
opened his eyes, turned to look at her. She was still sitting beside
Amy, clutching her hand.

 "Let
him do it, honey. Okay? Just let him do it."

 Eric
stared at her—at Amy, too. He took another deep breath, then
a third one, and the trembling slowly left his face. He shut his eyes
again, opened them. He nodded.

 Jeff
turned to Mathias, who'd been waiting through all this, the
unlighted match pinched between finger and thumb. "Go
ahead," Jeff said.

 And
then they all watched as Mathias coaxed the little fire into life.

S
tacy was just a few yards
away; she could see everything.

 Jeff
started on Eric's abdomen, enlarging the original wound,
tugging gently at one of the tendrils as he sliced. He didn't
have to go far—a couple of inches, no more—before
the plant came free. Then he began to cut in the other direction,
pulling on the second tendril. Again, it was only two or three inches
before the vine slipped easily from Eric's body. It
must've hurt, of course, but Eric just grimaced, his hands
tightening into fists. He didn't make a sound.

 Jeff
handed the knife to Mathias, took the needle from him. Mathias had
heated it in the tiny fire; he'd even threaded it for him.
They didn't seem to have to talk, those two; somehow, they
just knew what the other wanted, and did
it.
Like
Amy and me,
Stacy thought, and nearly broke into tears. She
had to shut her eyes to stop herself, clenching
them—clenching Amy's hand, too. The heat from her
own body had warmed Amy's skin by now; if Stacy
hadn't known better, she could've imagined that Amy
was merely sleeping. But no, that wasn't really true.
Already, an odd stiffness had begun to set in, the fingers curling
slightly in her grasp.

 She
opened her eyes. Jeff was mopping away some of Eric's blood
with the little towel, bending low, clasping the needle in his other
hand, ready to begin his stitching.

 Eric
lifted his head slightly, stared. "What're you
doing?"

 Jeff
hesitated, the needle poised an inch above Eric's abdomen. "I told you. We have to stitch it closed."

 "But
you didn't get it all."

 "Sure
I did. It came right out."

 Eric
gestured with his hand. "Can't you fucking see? It
goes all the way up my chest."

 Jeff
examined where Eric was pointing—across the left side of his
rib cage, then along his sternum. "That's just
swelling, Eric."

 "Bullshit."

 "That's
how the body reacts to physical trauma."

 "Cut
me there." He pointed at his sternum.

 "I'm
not
gonna
—"

 "Do
it and see."

 Jeff
glanced toward Mathias, then Stacy, as if hoping one of them would
help.

 Stacy
tried, weakly. "Just let him stitch it up, honey."

 Eric
ignored her. He reached his hand toward Mathias. "Give me the
knife."

 Mathias
looked at Jeff, who shook his head.

 "Either
cut me or give me the knife and let me do it."

 "Eric—"
Jeff began.

 "It's
inside me, damn it. I can feel it."

 Jeff
wavered for another moment, then handed the needle back to Mathias,
took the knife from him. "Show me," he said.

 Eric
ran his finger along the left edge of his sternum. "Here.
Where it's puffy."

 Jeff
bent over him, pressed the blade into his skin, then drew it downward,
carving a line three inches long. Blood spilled out of the wound, ran
down Eric's rib cage.

 "You
see?" Jeff asked. "No vine."

 Eric
was sweating, his hair clinging to his forehead. It was the pain, Stacy
assumed. "Deeper," he said.

 "No
way." Jeff shook his head. "There's
nothing there."

 "It's
hiding. You have to—"

 "If
I go deeper, I'll hit bone. Know what that'll feel
like?"

 "But
it's
in
there. I can feel it."

 Jeff
was using the towel to blot at the blood. "It's
just swelling, Eric."

 "Maybe
it's under the bone. Can you—"

 "We're
done. I'm stitching you up." Jeff handed the knife
back to Mathias, took the needle from him.

 "It'll
start to eat me. Like Pablo."

 Jeff
ignored him. He kept swiping the blood away with his towel. Then he
bent close, started to stitch.

 Eric
winced, shutting his eyes. "It hurts."

 Jeff
was hunched low over Eric's body, stitching and blotting,
stitching and blotting, tugging at the thread to tighten it, drawing
the wound closed. Very quietly, so softly that Stacy had to lean
forward to hear him, he said, "You've
gotta
get
ahold
of yourself."

 Eric
was silent, his eyes still closed. He took a deep breath, held it, then
let it out slowly. "I just…I don't want
to die here."

 "Of
course not. None of us do."

 "But
I might—don't you think? All of us
might."

 Jeff
didn't answer. He finished with the cut on Eric's
sternum, knotted it off, then returned to the wound at the base of
Eric's rib cage.

 Eric
opened his eyes. "Jeff?"

 "What?"

 "Do
you think we'll die here?"

 Jeff
was starting to stitch, concentrating on the task, squinting. "I think we're in a hard place. I think we have to
be really, really careful. And smart. And alert."

 "You're
not answering me."

 Jeff
considered this, then nodded. "I know." It seemed
like he might add something further, but he didn't. He
stitched and blotted, stitched and blotted, and when he finished with
Eric's abdomen, he reached for the knife once more, shifting
downward to the wounds on Eric's leg.

W
hen it was over, Jeff let him
drink some more tequila. Not much, not enough, but some. And he gave
him aspirin, too, which seemed almost like a joke. Eric laughed when
Jeff held out the bottle. Not Jeff, though, not the Eagle
Scout—he didn't even smile. "Take
three," he said. "It's better than
nothing."

 The
stitches hurt; everything did. Eric's skin felt too tight for
his body, as if it might begin to tear at any moment. It scared him to
move, to try to sit up or stand, so he didn't attempt either.
He lay on his back in the clearing, staring up at the sky, which was a
startling blue, not a cloud in
sight.
A
perfect day for the beach,
he thought, then tried to imagine
their hotel back in
Cancún
,
the bustle going on there, how he and the others would've
occupied themselves on a morning like this. An early swim, perhaps,
before breakfast on the veranda. And then, in the afternoon, if it
hadn't rained, maybe they'd have gone horseback
riding: Stacy had said she'd wanted to try it before they
left. Amy, too. Thinking this, Eric turned to look at them. Stacy kept
pushing Amy's eyes shut, but each time she did it, they eased
back open. Amy's mouth was hanging open, too. The
vine's sap had burned the skin on her face; it looked like a
birthmark. They'd have to bury her, Eric supposed, and he
wondered how they'd manage to dig a hole big enough to
accommodate her body.

 It
was his hunger he noticed first, not the smell that aroused it. He had
a tight,
crampy
feeling
in his stomach; his mouth was pooling with saliva. Reflexively, he
inhaled.
Bread
,
he thought.

 At
the same moment, Stacy said, "You smell that?"

 "It's
bread," Eric replied. "Someone's baking
bread."

 The
others were lifting their heads, sniffing at the air. "The
Mayans?" Stacy asked.

 Jeff
was on his feet, trying to track the scent, which was growing stronger
and stronger, a bakery smell. He moved slowly along the periphery of
the clearing, inhaling deeply.

 "Maybe
they've brought us bread," Stacy said. She was
smiling, almost giddy with the idea; she actually seemed to believe it. "One of us should go down and—"

 "It's
not the Mayans." Jeff was crouching now at the very edge of
the clearing, with his back to them.

 "But—"

 He
turned toward Stacy, gestured for her to come and see for herself. "It's the vine," he said.

 Mathias
and Stacy both got up and went to sniff at the plants' tiny
red flowers; Eric didn't need to. He could tell just from
their expressions that Jeff was right, that, somehow, the vine had
begun to give off the odor of freshly baked bread. Stacy returned to
Amy's body, sat beside it. She pressed her hand over her
mouth and nose, trying to block the smell. "I can't
handle this, Jeff. I really can't."

 "We'll
eat some," Jeff said. "We'll split the
orange."

 Stacy
was shaking her head. "It's not going to
help."

 Jeff
didn't answer. He vanished into the tent.

 "How
can
it
do
that?" Stacy asked. She glanced from Eric to Mathias and then
back again, as if expecting one of them to have some explanation.
Neither of them did, of course. She seemed like she was about to cry;
she was pinching her nose shut, breathing through her mouth, panting
slightly.

 After
a moment, Jeff reappeared.

 "It's
doing it on purpose, isn't it?" Stacy asked.

 No
one answered her. Jeff sat down, started to work on the orange. Eric
and Mathias watched him, the fruit slowly emerging from beneath its
peel.

 "Why
now?" Stacy persisted. "Why didn't
it—"

 "It
wanted to wait until we were hungry," Jeff said. "Until our defenses were low." He sectioned the
fruit, counting out the segments; there were ten of them. "If
it had started earlier, it wouldn't have bothered us as much.
We would've gotten used to it. But now…"
He shrugged. "It's the same reason it waited to
start mimicking our voices. It waits till we're weak before
it reveals its strength."

 "Why
bread?" Stacy asked.

 "It
must've smelled it at some point. Someone must've
baked bread here, or heated it at least. Because it imitates
things—things it's heard, things it's
smelled. Like a chameleon. A mockingbird."

 "But
it's
a
plant
.
"

 Jeff
glanced up at her. "How do you know that?"

 "What
do you mean?"