"Yes."
Eric felt a spinning sensation in his head, an abrupt loss of traction. Dead. He wanted to get up and go see for himself, but he wasn't certain he had the strength. Someone needed to cut the vine out of his leg first, pull it from his chest. Dead. He knew it was true, yet at the same time he couldn't accept it. Dead. It was silly, but the movie they'd joked about had taken hold of his imagination: Amy was the good girl, the prissy one; she was supposed to survive, was supposed to float away with Jeff in their hot-air balloon.
Dead, dead, dead.
"Jesus," he said.
"I know."
"I mean-"
There was that pat of the hand again, that sweaty touch of skin. "Shh. Don't. There's nothing to say."
Eric let his head fall back onto the tent's floor. He shut his eyes for a while, then opened them, searching for the first hints of light coming through the orange nylon. But there was only darkness-all around him, only darkness.
He closed his eyes again and lay there, waiting for dawn, with that single word echoing through his head.
Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead…
Eric started to call from the tent again, as soon as the sun began to rise. He wanted the knife. Mathias stepped out through the little opening, stood in the clearing, staring at Jeff and Stacy. They were still sitting next to Amy's body, one on either side of it. Stacy was holding Amy's hand.
"What?" Jeff asked.
Mathias shrugged, tilted his head. The light hadn't yet gained much strength; it was tinged with pink. Off in the distance, in the jungle, Jeff could hear birds calling out, shrieking and cawing. He couldn't read Mathias's expression: worried, maybe. Or just uncertain. "I think you should come look."
Jeff got up, feeling stiff, heavy-limbed, his reserves running out on him. He followed Mathias back into the tent, leaving Stacy with Amy's body.
Inside, the light was still too dim to see much. Eric was lying on his back. His left leg and most of his abdomen were hidden beneath something, and it took Jeff a moment to realize that it was the vine.
He crouched beside him. "Why haven't you pulled it off?" he asked.
"He's afraid to tear them," Mathias said.
Eric nodded. "If they break off, they can go anywhere. Like worms."
Jeff prodded at the mass of leaves, bending close to see. The vines had pushed themselves into the wounds on Eric's leg and chest, but it was hard to tell how far they'd managed to get. Jeff needed better light. "Can you walk?" he asked.
Eric shook his head. "It'll crush them. They'll burn me."
Jeff considered this; it was probably true, he decided. "Then we'll carry you."
Eric seemed frightened by this. He tried to sit, but he only made it halfway, propping himself up on his elbow. "Where?"
"Outside. It's too dark in here."
There were five tendrils in all, coiling themselves around Eric's body. Three had attacked his leg, each of them entering a different wound. The other two had both pushed their way in through the cut on his chest. Jeff realized they'd need to snap them off from their roots if they wanted to carry him out of there, and he did it quickly, not saying anything, worried that Eric might protest. Then he gestured for Mathias to help him. Mathias took Eric's shoulders, Jeff his feet, and they picked him up. The five tendrils hung off his body, dangling toward the floor of the tent, writhing snakelike in the air, as they carried him out into the clearing.
They set him down in the dirt, midway between Pablo and Amy. Then Jeff stepped across the clearing, picked up the knife. It was a good thing, having a task like this; he could feel it helping him. Just holding the knife in his hand seemed to clear his mind, sharpen his perceptions. He hesitated for a second, staring about their little campsite. They were a desperate-looking bunch: dirty, their clothes falling off them. Mathias's and Eric's faces were thickly stubbled. Eric was covered in dried blood; the vines looked as if they were growing from his wounds rather than into them. Jeff had seen him glance toward Amy as they'd carried him out from the tent, just a quick exploratory peek, before he flinched away. No one had spoken; they all seemed to be waiting for someone else to do it first. They needed a plan, Jeff knew, a path to carry them beyond this present moment, something to occupy their thoughts, and he understood, too, that he would have to be the one to find it.
The light was growing stronger, bringing the first of the day's heat with it. Pablo's breathing-remarkably, unexpectedly-had become much quieter. For an instant, Jeff even thought the Greek might've died. He approached the lean-to, crouched beside it. No, he was still with them. But the phlegmy rattle had vanished; his breathing was steadier now, slower. Jeff touched Pablo's forehead, felt the heat coming off him, the fever still burning within his body. And yet something had changed. When Jeff pulled his hand away, the Greek's eyes eased open, stared up at him. They seemed surprisingly focused, too: alert.
"Hey," Jeff said.
Pablo licked his lips, swallowed dryly. "Potato?" he whispered.
Jeff stared at him, trying to make sense of this. "Potato?"
Pablo nodded, licking his lips again.
"He wants water," Stacy said from across the clearing. "That's Greek for water."
Jeff turned to look at her. "How do you know?"
"He was saying it before."
Eric was lying on his back, staring up at the sky. "The knife, Jeff," he said.
"In a moment."
Mathias was standing over Eric, his arms folded across his chest, as if he were cold. But Jeff could see the sweat on his face, making it seem to shine in the gathering light. Jeff caught his eye, pointed toward the water jug. It was sitting in the dirt beside the tent. Mathias picked it up, brought it to him.
Jeff uncapped the jug, held it in the air above Pablo, pointing. "Potato?" he asked.
Pablo nodded, opened his mouth, his tongue protruding slightly. There was something on his teeth, Jeff noticed, a brownish stain-blood, perhaps. Jeff lowered the jug, brought it to Pablo's lips, tilted a small amount of water onto his tongue. The Greek swallowed, coughing slightly, then opened his mouth for more. Three times, Jeff repeated this ritual. It was a good sign, he knew-this quieting of Pablo's breathing, this return to consciousness, this ability to stomach the water-but Jeff couldn't quite bring himself to accept it. In his mind, Pablo was already dead. He didn't believe that anyone could survive all that had happened to the Greek in the past thirty-six hours, not without elaborate medical intervention. The broken back, the amputated legs, the loss of blood, the almost certain infection-a few mouthfuls of water weren't going to compensate for any of that.
When Pablo shut his eyes again, Jeff moved back across the clearing, crouched beside Eric.
A plan -that was what they needed.
Clean the knife-wash the blood off its blade, build another fire to sterilize it. Maybe sterilize one of the needles from the sewing kit, too. Then cut the vine out of Eric, stitch him back up.
And someone should head down the hill before long to watch for the Greeks.
And they should sew the remains of the blue tent into a pouch, in case it rained again that afternoon.
And-what else? There was something he was neglecting, Jeff knew, something he was avoiding.
Amy's body.
He glanced toward it, then quickly away. One step at a time, he told himself. Start with the knife.
"It's going to take a few minutes to get ready," he said to Eric.
Eric started to sit up but then thought better of it. "What do you mean?"
"I have to sterilize the knife."