The Ruins

Go to her, he'd thought-he remembered the words in his head. Sitting in the mud beside Pablo's lean-to, watching her stagger, drop to her knees, her hands at her mouth. Do it now. And why hadn't he?

There was movement from the tent, and Stacy appeared, came stumbling toward them. 'It's inside him again,' she said. 'I-' She stopped, stood staring at them through the darkness. 'What happened?'

Jeff shifted back to Amy's chest, felt for the sternum.

'Is she-'

My fault: There was no doubt of this, yet Jeff knew he couldn't afford to think on it now, had to resist its pull. Later, he'd have to confront those two words, bear their weight; later, there'd be no escape. But not now.

He began to push: one…two…three…four…five.

Then again, perhaps there wouldn't be a later. Because there was that possibility, too, wasn't there? No later, nothing beyond this place, Amy simply the first of them, with himself and the others soon to follow. And if that were the case, what did it matter, really? This way rather than another, now rather than in the coming days or weeks-couldn't it be a blessing, even, like any other abridgement of suffering?

'Jeff…' Mathias said.

He hadn't known. He hadn't been able to see. She'd been only fifteen feet away, but lost in darkness nonetheless. How could he have known?

Eric was yelling from the tent, calling for Stacy, for the knife, for help.

Not now, Jeff thought, struggling to discipline himself. Later.

'Mathias?' Stacy said, sounding scared. 'Is she…'

'Yes.'

Babies pulled from trash cans, old women found slumped in their nightgowns, hikers dug out of snowbanks- the main thing was not to give up, not to make assumptions, to act without hesitation, and pray for that miracle, that quirk, that sudden gasp of air.

Stacy took a single step forward. 'You mean-'

'Dead.'

Jeff ignored them. Back to her mouth: the cold lips, the taste of vomit, the burn of the sap as he forced the air into her chest. Eric kept yelling from the tent. Stacy and Mathias were silent, not moving, watching Jeff work at the body-the lungs, the heart-straining for that moment of grace, which resisted him, fought him, wouldn't come. He gave up long before he stopped, kept at it for an extra handful of minutes out of simple inertia, a terror of what it meant to lift his lips from her mouth, his hands from her chest, with no intention of returning. It was fatigue that finally forced him to a halt, a cramp in his right thigh, a growing sense of light-headedness; he sat back on his heels, struggled to catch his breath.

No one spoke.

She called my name, Jeff thought. He wiped at his mouth; the sap made his lips feel abraded. I heard her call it. He picked up Amy's hand, clasped it in his own, as if trying to warm it.

'Stacy…' Eric shouted.

Jeff lifted his head, peered toward the tent. 'What's wrong with him?' he asked. The quietness of his voice astonished him; he'd expected something ragged, something desperate: a howl. He was waiting for tears-he could feel them, just beyond his reach-but they didn't come.

Wouldn't.

Later, he thought.

'It's inside him again,' Stacy said, and she, too, spoke softly, almost inaudibly. It was the presence of death, Jeff knew, reducing them all to whispers.

He let go of Amy's hand, laid it carefully across her chest, thinking of that rubber dummy once more, those limp arms. He'd received a certificate for passing the test; his mother had framed it, hung it in his room. He could shut his eyes now and see all those certificates and ribbons and plaques hanging on the walls, the shelves full of trophies. 'Someone should go help him,' he said.

Mathias stood up without a word, started toward the tent. Jeff and Stacy watched him go, a shadow moving off across the clearing.

Ghostlike, Jeff thought, and then the tears arrived; he couldn't hold them back. No sobs, no gasps-no wailing or moaning or keening-just a half dozen drops of salty water rolling slowly down his cheeks, stinging where the vine's sap had burned his skin.

Stacy couldn't see Jeff's tears. She couldn't see much of anything, actually. She was in bad shape: tired, drunk, aching-in her muscles, in her bones-and thick-headed with fear. It was dark, too dark; it hurt her eyes, the straining to pull things into some semblance of themselves. Amy was lying on her back and Jeff was kneeling beside her-that was all she could see. But she knew, even so, had known as soon as she stepped out of the tent-not how, just the fact of it: She's dead.

She lowered herself into a crouch. She was two feet away from them; she could've touched Amy if she'd only reached out her hand. She knew she ought to do this, too, that it would be the right thing, exactly what Amy would've wanted of her. But she didn't move. She was too scared: Touching her would make it real.

'Are you sure?' she asked Jeff.

'Sure?'

'That she's…' Stacy couldn't bring herself to say it.

But Jeff understood; she sensed him nodding in the darkness.

'How?' she whispered

'How what?'

'How did she…'

'It grew over her mouth. It choked her.'

Stacy took a deep breath, reflexively. This can't be happening, she thought. How can this be happening? That campfire smell was in the air again, and it reminded her that there were people at the bottom of the hill. 'We have to tell them,' she said.

'Who?'

'The Mayans.'

She could feel Jeff watching, but he didn't speak. She wished she could make out his expression, because he was part of the unreality here, the not-happening quality-his calmness, his quiet voice, his hidden face. Amy was dead, and they were just sitting beside her, doing nothing.

'We have to tell them what's happened.' Stacy's voice rose as she spoke. She could feel it more than hear it, her heart speeding up, burning through the tequila, the sleep, even the terror. 'We have to get them to help.'

'They're not gonna-'

'They have to.'

'Stacy-'

'They have to!'

'Stacy!'

She stopped, blinking at him. She was having a hard time remaining in her crouch, her muscles jumping in her thighs. She wanted to leap up, run down the hill, bring this all to an end. It seemed so simple.

'Shut up,' Jeff said, his voice very quiet. 'All right?'

She didn't answer, was too startled. Briefly, she felt the urge to scream, to lash out at him, strike him, but