The Ruins

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!'