The Ruins

as he was ever going to get.

'Warum?' he said again.

Then the vines were in motion once more, snaking quickly into the clearing, grabbing at the German, coiling around his body. Stacy jumped forward. She struggled to free him-she did her best-but there were far too many of them.

Eric could feel himself fading. He had to sit, and he did so clumsily, half-falling, dropping into a large puddle of blood-his own and Mathias's. It was absurd, but he still wanted the knife, would've crawled forward and pulled it from the German's chest if only he'd had the strength. He watched it jerk back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

More and more tendrils kept coming. Stacy was yanking at them, sobbing now.

Soon they'd be reaching for him, too, Eric knew.

He shut his eyes, only for an instant, but it was long enough. By the time he opened them again, the knife had ceased its fretful twitching.

Stacy sat with Eric, his head resting on her lap. The vine had claimed Mathias's corpse, dragging it away. She could still see his right shoe protruding from the mass of green, but otherwise he lay completely covered. The tendrils were quiet, motionless, just the occasional soft rustling as they worked to consume his body.

Stacy couldn't understand why the vine wasn't slithering forth to capture Eric, too. She wouldn't be able to defend him-just as she hadn't been able to defend Mathias-and she was certain the plant must know this. But all it sent out was a single long tendril, which sucked noisily at the immense puddle of blood that surrounded them, slowly draining it.

It left Eric be.

Not that there was any doubt as to where this would end: Stacy could see he was dying. At first, it seemed as if it might be over in a matter of minutes. Blood was seeping and dripping and running in thin strings off him, pooling in the hollows around his clavicles, welling upward from his deeper wounds. There was a strong smell coming off him, vaguely metallic, which, for some reason, reminded Stacy of collecting coins as a child, polishing pennies, sorting them by date.

She stroked his head, and he moaned. 'I'm right here,' she said. 'I'm right here.'

He startled her by opening his eyes: he peered up at her, looking scared. When he tried to speak, it came out as a whisper, very hoarse, too soft to hear.

She leaned close. 'What?'

Once more, there was that faint whisper. It sounded as if he were saying someone's name.

'Billy?' she asked.

He closed his eyes, dragged them open again.

'Who's Billy, Eric?'

She saw him swallow, and it looked painful. Breathing looked painful, too. Everything did.

'I don't know a Billy.'

He gave a slow shake of his head. He was concentrating, she could tell, working to articulate the words. 'Kill…me,' he said.

Stacy stared down at him. No, she was thinking. No, no, no. She was willing his eyes to drift shut again, willing him to slip back into unconsciousness.

'It…hurts…'

She nodded. 'I know. But-'

'Please…'

'Eric-'

'Please…'

Stacy was starting to cry now. This was why the vine had left him untouched, she realized: it was to torment her with his passing. 'You'll be okay. I promise. You just have to rest.'

Somehow, Eric managed a crooked smile. He reached, found her hand, squeezed. 'Beg…ging…you.'

That was too much for Stacy; it knocked her into silence.

'The…knife…'

She shook her head. 'No, sweetie. Shh.'

'Beg…ging…' he said. 'Beg…ging…'

He wasn't going to stop, she could tell. He was going to lie there with his head in her lap, bleeding, suffering, beseeching her assistance, while the sun continued its slow climb above them. If she wanted this to end-his bleeding, his suffering, his beseeching-she would have to be the one to do it.

'Beg…ging…'

Stacy carefully shifted his head aside, stood up. I'll get it for him, she was thinking. I'll let him do it. She moved to the edge of the clearing, stepped into the vine; she crouched beside Mathias's body, parted the tendrils. The plant had already stripped the flesh from his right arm, all the way to his shoulder. His face was untouched, though, his eyes open, staring at her. Stacy had to resist the urge to push them shut. The knife was still protruding from his chest. She grasped it, tugged, and it slipped free. She carried it back to Eric.

'Here,' she said. She put it in his right hand, closed his fingers over it.

He gave her that lopsided smile again, that slow shake of his head. 'Too…weak,' he whispered.

'Why don't you rest, then? Just shut your eyes and-'

'You…' He was shoving the knife back toward her. 'You…'

'I can't, Eric.'

'Please…' He had her hand, the knife; he was pressing them together. 'Please…'

It was over, Stacy knew-Eric's life. All he had left here was torment. He wanted her help, was desperate for it. And to ignore his pleading, to sit back and let him suffer his way slowly into death, simply because she was too squeamish, too terrified to do what so clearly needed to be done, couldn't this be seen as a sort of sin? She had it in her power to ease his distress, yet she was choosing not to. So, in some way, wasn't she responsible for his agony?

Who am I? she was thinking once again. Am I still me?

'Where?' she asked.

He took her hand, the one with the knife in it, brought it to his chest. 'Here…' He set the tip of the blade so that it was resting next to his sternum. 'Just…push…'

It would've been so easy to pull the knife away, toss it aside, and Stacy was telling her body to do this, ordering it into motion. But it wasn't listening; it wasn't moving.

'Please…' Eric whispered.

She closed her eyes. Am I still me?

'Please…'

And then she did it: she leaned forward, shoving down upon the knife with all her weight.

Pain.

For an instant, that was all Eric was conscious of, as if something had exploded inside his chest. He could see Stacy above him, looking so frightened, so tearful. He was trying to speak, trying to say Thank you and I'm sorry and I love you, but the words weren't coming.

They'd gone to a roadside zoo in Cancun one afternoon, as a lark. It had held no more than a dozen animals, one of which was labeled a zebra, though it was clearly a donkey, with black stripes painted on its hide. Some of the stripes had drip marks. While the four of them stood staring at it, the animal had suddenly braced its legs and peed, a tremendous torrent. Amy and Stacy had both collapsed into giggles. For some reason, this was what came