The Ruins (50 page)

 "And
then?"

 "The
gods used corn—white corn and yellow corn. And water. And
they made four men out of this who were perfect. Too perfect, actually,
because the gods became frightened. They were worried that these
creatures knew too much, that they'd have no need for gods,
so they blew on them and clouded their minds. And these things of corn
and water and blurred thoughts—they were the first
men."

 There
was a roll of thunder, sounding surprisingly close. Jeff and Mathias
both glanced skyward. The clouds were about to obscure the sun; any
moment now it would happen. "We didn't see any
monkeys," Mathias said. "Coming here through the
jungle." This seemed to sadden him. "I
would've liked that, wouldn't you? To have seen
some monkeys?"

 There
was such an air of resignation to this statement, of looking back at
something now forever unattainable, that it made Jeff nervous. He spoke
without thinking, startling himself. "I don't want
to die here."

 Mathias
gave him half a smile. "I don't want to die
anywhere."

 One
of the Mayan men began to applaud by the campfire. The boy was
juggling, the rocks arcing fluidly above his head, a look of amazement
on his face, as if he weren't quite certain how he was
accomplishing this feat. When he finally dropped one of the stones, the
men cheered, slapping him on the back. The boy grinned, showing his
teeth.

 "But
I guess I will, even so, won't I?" Mathias said.

 There
was a question in Jeff's head, a single word—
Here?
—but
he didn't speak it. He was afraid of what Mathias might
answer, he knew, frightened of the German's potential
indifference to the possibility, his dismissive shrug. Pablo would go
first, Jeff supposed. And then Eric. Stacy would likely be next, though
maybe not; these things were probably hard to guess. But in the end, if
Mathias was right, they'd all be reduced to vine-covered
mounds. Jeff tried to imagine what would be left of
himself—the zipper and rivets on his jeans, the rubber soles
of his tennis shoes, his watch. And this shirt he'd pilfered
from the backpacks, too, this fake khaki that he assumed must be some
sort of polyester—it would be left draped across his empty
rib cage. For some reason, this last image was the most unsettling
detail of all, the idea of dying here in a stranger's
clothes, so that when someone finally discovered them—and
Mathias said it would have to happen, sooner or
later—they'd assume the shirt had belonged to him.

 "Are
you a Christian?" he asked.

 Mathias
appeared amused by the question. He offered him that same half smile. "I was baptized one."

 "But
do you believe?"

 The
German shook his head, without hesitation.

 "So
what does dying mean to you?"

 "Nothing.
The end." Mathias cocked his head, looked at Jeff. "And you?"

 "I
don't know," Jeff said. "It sounds
stupid, but I've never really thought about it. Not in a real
way." It was true. Jeff had been raised an Episcopalian, yet
in an absentminded manner; it had simply been one more duty of his
childhood, no different than mowing the lawn, or taking piano lessons.
Safely off at college, he'd stopped going to services. He was
young, healthy, sheltered; death had held no sway over his thoughts.

 Mathias
gave a soft laugh, shook his head. "Poor Jeff."

 "What?"

 "Always
so desperate to be prepared." He reached out, gave
Jeff's knee a pat. "It will be whatever it is, no?
Nothing, something—our believing one thing or another will
matter not at all in the end."

 Saying
this, Mathias rose to his feet, stretching his arms over his head. He
was getting ready to leave, Jeff could tell, and he felt a thrum of
panic at the prospect. He couldn't have said why exactly, but
he was afraid of being alone here. It was a premonition, of course,
though Jeff never would've believed in the possibility. For
some reason, what surfaced in his head was the memory of pulling the
vine free from Amy's mouth, the slimy dampness of it, the
smell of bile and tequila, the way the tendrils had clung to her face,
resisting him, twisting and coiling as he tore them away. He shivered.

 "What
sort of place do you live in?" he asked.

 Mathias
stared down at him, not understanding.

 "In
Germany," Jeff said. "A house?

 Mathias
shook his head. "A flat."

 "What's
it like?"

 "Nothing
special. It's tiny. A bedroom, a sitting room, a
kitchen—on the second floor, overlooking the street.
There's a bakery downstairs. In the summer, the ovens make
everything too hot."

 "Can
you smell the bread?"

 "Of
course. I wake to it every morning." It seemed like that
might be all he was going to say, but then he continued. "I
have a cat. His name is
Katschen
;
it means kitten. The baker's daughter is watching him while
I'm away. Feeding him, cleaning out his box. And watering my
plants. I have a big window in my bedroom—how do you say it
in English? A bay window?"

 Jeff
nodded.

 "It's
full of plants. Which is funny, I suppose. Every night, I went to sleep
in a room full of plants. I found them calming." He laughed
at this; so did Jeff. And then the clouds swept across the sun.
Instantly, the light changed, became somber, autumnal. The wind gusted,
and they both reached up, pressing their hats to their heads. When it
passed, Mathias said, "I guess I'll go
now."

 Jeff
nodded, and that was it; there was nothing more to say. He watched
Mathias walk off up the trail.

 There
was the smell of cooking in the air. At first, Jeff thought it must be
the vine again, fashioning some new torment for him. But when he turned
back toward the clearing, he saw that the Mayan woman had set the big
iron pot on its tripod over the fire; she was stirring something within
it. Goat, Jeff thought, sniffing at the air. They were eating earlier
than on the previous evenings, perhaps in the hope of finishing their
meal before the storm's arrival.

 Beneath
the aroma of the food and campfire, Jeff could smell his own body.
Stale sweat, with something worse lurking within it, some hint of
Pablo's stench clinging to him, his urine and shit, his
rotting flesh. Jeff thought about that bar of soap in the clearing
outside the tent, readied for the rain's arrival. He tried to
imagine what it would feel like to lather and scrub and rinse, but he
couldn't bring himself to believe that it would have any
impact, couldn't imagine that he would ever be cleansed of
this foulness. Because it didn't feel merely like a physical
sensation. No, the corruption seemed to run far deeper, as if what he
reeked of was not simply sweat and urine and shit but also failure.
He'd actually thought that he could keep them alive here;
he'd believed that he was smarter and more disciplined than
the others, and that these traits alone might save them. He was a fool,
though; he could see that now. He'd been a fool to cut off
Pablo's legs. All he'd managed to do was prolong
the Greek's suffering. And he'd been a
fool—worse than a fool, so much worse—to sit there
pouting while, fifteen feet away from him, Amy had choked to death.
Even if, through some miracle, he managed to leave this place alive, he
couldn't see how he'd ever be able to survive that
memory.

 Time
was passing. The Mayans finished their meal; the woman used a handful
of leaves to wipe clean the pot. The men sat with their bows in their
laps, watching Jeff. The boy had given up on his juggling;
he'd retreated into the tree line, was lying down beneath the
tarp. The crows continued to flap restlessly from branch to branch,
cawing at one another. The sky grew darker and darker; the trees began
to sway in the wind. Every time it gusted, the plastic tarp made a
sharp snapping sound, like a rifle shot.

 And
then, finally, just as the day was edging its way into an early dusk,
the rain arrived.

S
tacy was in the tent with Eric.

 She'd
lost herself for a stretch, out there in the clearing, standing over
that sleeping bag, while the vine writhed about at her feet, laughing.
She'd started to cry, clutching Eric, and the tears had just
kept coming. Long after Jeff had departed for the bottom of the hill,
after the vine had fallen silent, even after Mathias had reappeared,
she'd continued to sob. It had frightened her;
she'd started to wonder if she'd ever be able to
stop. But Eric kept hugging her, stroking her, saying, "
Shh
…
shh
," and eventually,
through fatigue, if nothing else, she'd felt herself begin to
quiet.

 "I
have to lie down," she'd whispered.

 That
was how they'd ended up inside the tent again. Eric had
unzipped the flap for her, followed her through it. When
she'd collapsed onto the remaining sleeping bag, he had, too,
snuggling up behind her. After the tears, there came a heaviness, a
sense of not being able to go
on.
This
,
too, will pass,
Stacy told herself, and tried to believe it.
She remembered sitting at the bottom of the hill that morning, all
alone, how interminable those three hours had felt, how impossible to
survive. And yet she'd managed: She'd sat there in
the sun, struggling not to think of Amy—struggling and
failing—and one moment had led to the next, until suddenly
she'd turned and found Mathias standing behind her, telling
her it was time, that she was done, that she could hike back up the
hill.

 Her
throat ached from crying; her eyes felt swollen. She was so tired, so
desperately tired, yet the idea of sleep filled her with fear. She
could feel Eric's breath against the back of her neck. He was
hugging her, and at first it had seemed nice—soothing,
quieting—but now, without warning, it began to shift, began
to feel as if he were clutching her a little too tightly, making her
conscious of her heart, still beating so quickly in her chest.

 She
tried to shift away, only to have him pull her closer. "I'm so cold," he said. "Are
you cold?"

 Stacy
shook her head. His body didn't feel cold to her; it felt
hot, in fact, almost feverish. She was sweating where they touched.

 "And
tired," he said. "So fucking tired."

 Stacy
had returned from the bottom of the hill and found him lying in the
clearing, on his back, his mouth hanging open: asleep. Jeff had been
sewing his pouch; he'd called out to her as she'd
emerged from the trail, told her to get herself some water. Even then,
Eric hadn't stirred. He must've napped for two
hours, she guessed, maybe three, yet his fatigue still hadn't
left him. She could hear it in his voice, how close he was to sleep,
and for some reason this, too, made her want to pull away. She shifted
again, more forcefully, and he let her go, his arms falling limply off
her. She sat up, turning to stare at him.

 "Will
you watch me?" he asked.

 "Watch
you?"

 "Sleep,"
he said. "Just for a bit?"

 Stacy
nodded. She could see the wounds on his leg, the ugly ridges of
Jeff's stitching, shiny with Neosporin. His skin was smeared
with blood. He was cold and tired, and he had no obvious cause to be
either of these things. Stacy consciously chose not to pursue this
observation, not to follow it to some conclusion. She closed her eyes,
thinking,
This
,
too, will pass.

 His
touch startled her, making her jump. He'd reached out, taken
her hand, was lying there, smiling sleepily up at her. Stacy
didn't retreat, but there was effort in this; she could feel
herself wanting to flee from him, from the heat his flesh was giving
off, the damp slickness of his
grip.
It's
inside him:
that was what she was thinking. She attempted a
smile, which she managed, but just barely. It didn't matter,
because Eric's eyes were already drifting shut.

 Stacy
waited till she was certain he'd fallen asleep, then slipped
free of his grasp, edging backward, leaving his hand lying open on the
tent's floor, palm up, slightly cupped, like a
beggar's. She imagined dropping a coin into it, late at night
on some dark city street; she pictured herself hurrying off, never to
see him again.

 This,
too, will pass.

 Mathias
was out in the clearing, sitting beside Pablo. Stacy could hear the
Greek's breathing, even above the wind, which had begun to
rise, gradually but implacably, buffeting the nylon walls. It had grown
dim inside the tent, almost dark. Eric was a snorer, and he was
starting up now. Stacy used to imitate the sound for Amy, honking and
snorting, the two of them giggling over it late at night in their dorm
room, sharing secrets. The pain of this memory felt startlingly
physical: a throbbing sort of ache, high up in her chest. She touched
the spot, massaged it, willing herself not to cry.

 This,
too.

 Somehow,
she sensed the rain's
approach.
Here
it comes,
she thought, and she was right: an instant later,
the storm arrived. The water fell in sheets, windblown, as if a giant
wet hand were rhythmically slapping at the tent.

 Stacy
leaned forward, prodded Eric's shoulder. "Eric," she said.

 His
eyes opened—he peered up at her—but somehow it
didn't seem as if he were awake.

 "It's
raining," she said.

 "Raining?"

 Stacy
could see him touching his wounds with his hands, one after another, as
if to check if they were still there. She nodded. "I have to
help Mathias. All right?"

 He
just stared at her. His face looked haggard, strikingly pale. She
thought of all the blood he'd lost in the last forty-eight
hours, thought of Jeff pulling those tendrils from his body. She
shuddered; she couldn't help it.