The Ruins

forward into the coming hours, rationing out the liquor sip by sip, like a bag dripping solace into a vein. The Greeks would be here soon, and everyone was going to be okay. What he needed to do now was sit, holding Stacy's hand, and in a little while he'd be able to ask her for the bottle again. In that way, one small sip at a time, he believed he could make it through the coming day.

They didn't have a shovel.

Jeff had found a sharp rock, shaped like a giant spearhead, big enough that he had to get down on his knees and use both hands to chop at the dry, hard-packed soil. Mathias used one of the metal stakes from the blue tent, stabbing the earth with it, grunting each time he swung his arm. When a sufficient amount of dirt was loosened in this manner, they stood up to kick it free, then paused for a few moments-catching their breath, wiping the sweat from their faces-before starting the whole process all over again.

It was hard work, and not going nearly as well as Jeff had hoped. He had an image in his mind: a hole four feet deep, just wide enough for someone to squat over it, one foot on either side, its walls dropping into the earth, perfectly perpendicular. It was possible Jeff had read a book that described such a thing, or seen a drawing of it somewhere, but this wasn't what he and Mathias were creating here. At even a slight depth, the walls of their latrine began to collapse and crumble, so that it widened as quickly as it deepened. For it to be narrow enough to allow someone to squat above it, the hole would have to stop while it was still only two feet deep, which defeated the whole purpose, of course. A latrine that shallow wasn't really a latrine at all; they might as well just continue to fumble through what Jeff had done earlier that morning, shuffling off into the vines and shitting, covering the mess with a parting kick of dirt.

Thinking this, Jeff realized the truth, what he should've known from the very start: it was a stupid idea. They didn't need a latrine, even a well-made one. Sanitation wasn't high on their list of problems just now, and no matter what might happen to them here, they'd be gone long before it became an issue of any urgency. Rescued, perhaps. Or dead. Jeff and Mathias were digging now not because it made any sense to be doing so, but because Jeff was floundering about, looking for something solid to cling to, some action to take, anything to keep from simply having to sit, helpless, and wait. Realizing this, accepting it, Jeff stopped digging, dropped back on his haunches. Mathias did, too.

'What are we doing?' Jeff asked.

Mathias shrugged, gesturing toward the sloppy, shallow ditch they'd managed to gouge out of the earth. 'Digging a latrine.'

'And is there any point in that?'

Mathias shook his head. 'Not really.'

Jeff tossed his stone into the dirt, wiped his hands on his pants. His palms burned-that green fuzz was growing on his jeans again. They all had it-on their clothes, their shoes-he'd seen each of them, at one moment or another, reaching to brush it away as they'd crouched together in the clearing.

'We could use it for the urine,' Mathias said. 'To distill it.' He made a motion with his hands, spreading an imaginary tarp across the hole.

'And is there any point in that?' Jeff asked.

Mathias bridled at this, lifting his head. 'You were the one who-'

Jeff nodded, cutting him off. 'I know-my idea. But how much water will we get out of it?'

'Not much.'

'Enough to make up for whatever we're sweating right now, digging like this?'

'I doubt it.'

Jeff sighed. He felt foolish. And-what else? Tired, maybe, but more than this: defeated. Perhaps this was despair, which he knew was the worst thing of all, the opposite of survival. Whatever it was, the feeling was on him now, and he didn't know how to shake it. 'If it rains,' he said, 'we'll have plenty of water. If it doesn't, we'll die of thirst.'

Mathias didn't say anything. He was watching him closely, squinting slightly.

'I was trying to make work,' Jeff said. 'Give us things to do. Keep up our morale.' He smiled, mocking himself. 'I was even planning to drop back down into the shaft.'

'Why?'

'The beeping. The cell phone sound.'

'There's no oil for the lamp.'

'We could make a torch.'

Mathias laughed, incredulous. 'A torch?'

'With rags-we could soak them in tequila.'

'You see?' Mathias asked. 'How German you are?'

'You're saying there's no point?'

'None worth the risk.'

'What risk?'

Mathias shrugged, as if it were self-evident. And perhaps it was. 'Look at Pablo,' he said.

Pablo. The worst thing. Jeff hadn't mentioned his idea yet, his plan to save the Greek, and he hesitated even now, wondering at his motives, how pure they were, how mixed. The possibility that he was simply, yet again, making work for them hovered at the edge of his mind, then was quickly dismissed. They could save him if they tried; he was certain of it. 'You think he's going to make it?' he asked.

Mathias frowned. When he spoke, his voice went low, almost inaudibly so. 'Not likely.'

'But if help came today-'

'Do you believe help is coming today?'

Jeff shook his head, and they were silent for a stretch. Mathias picked at the dirt with his stake. Jeff was working up his courage. Finally, he cleared his throat, said the words. 'Maybe we could save him.'

Mathias kept probing at the dirt, not even bothering to glance up. 'How?'

'We could amputate his legs.'

Mathias went still, watching Jeff now, smiling at him, but uncertainly. 'You're joking.'

Jeff shook his head.

'You want to cut off his legs.'

'He'll die if we don't.'

'Without anesthesia.'

'There wouldn't be any pain. He has no feeling beneath his waist.'

'He'd lose too much blood.'

'The tourniquets are already in place. We'd cut below them.'

'With what? You don't have any surgical instruments, any-'

'The knife.'

'You'd need a bone saw-a knife wouldn't do a thing.'

'We could break the bones, then cut.'

Mathias shook his head, looking appalled. It was the most emotion Jeff had ever seen on his face. 'No, Jeff. No way.'

'Then he's dead.'

Mathias ignored this. 'What about infection? Cutting into him with a dirty knife?'

'We could sterilize it.'

'We don't have any wood. Or water to boil. Or a pot, for that matter.'

'There are things to burn-those notebooks, the backpacks full of clothes. We could heat the knife directly in the flames. It'll cauterize as it cuts.'

'You'll kill him.'

'Or save him-one or the other. But at least there's a chance. Would you rather sit back and watch him die over the coming days? It's not going to be quick-don't trick yourself into thinking that.'

'If help comes-'

'Today, Mathias. It would have to come today. With his legs exposed like that, septicemia's going to set in- maybe it already has. Once it gets going, there'll be nothing anyone can do.'