She opened her eyes, glanced about. A handful of minutes had passed, but nothing had changed.
Yes, she hated herself.
She hated herself for not knowing what time it was, or how much longer she’d have to sit here.
She hated herself for having stopped believing that Pablo was going to live.
She hated herself for knowing that the Greeks weren’t going to come, not today, not ever.
She tilted back her umbrella, risked a quick look at the sky. Jeff was hoping for rain, she knew, depending on it. He was working to save them; he had plans and schemes and plots, but they all had the same flaw, the same weakness lurking within them—they all involved a degree of hope. And rain didn’t come from hope; rain came from clouds, white or gray or the deepest of black—it didn’t matter—they had to be there. But the sky above her was a blinding blue, stubbornly so, without a single cloud in sight.
It wasn’t going to rain.
And this was just another thing for Stacy to hate herself for knowing.
T hey decided to drop back into the hole.
It was Jeff’s idea, but Amy didn’t argue. The Greeks weren’t coming today. Everyone was admitting this now—to themselves at least, if not to the others—and thus the cell phone, the perhaps mythical cell phone calling to them from the bottom of the shaft, was the only thing left to pin their hopes on. So when Jeff proposed that they try one final time to find it, Amy startled him by agreeing.
They couldn’t leave Pablo alone, of course. At first, they were going to have Amy sit with him while Eric and Mathias worked the windlass, lowering Jeff into the shaft. But Jeff wanted her to go, too. He was planning on making some sort of torch out of the archaeologists’ clothes, soaking them in tequila, and he wasn’t certain how long the light would last from this. Two sets of eyes down there would be more efficient than one, he said, allowing the search to be more thorough, more methodical.
Amy didn’t want to go down into the hole again. But Jeff wasn’t asking what she wanted; he was telling her what he wanted, describing it as something that had already been decided, a problem they needed to solve.
“We could carry it to the hole,” Mathias said, meaning the backboard, meaning Pablo, and they all thought about this for a moment. Then Jeff nodded.
So that was what they did. Jeff and Mathias lifted the backboard out from under the little lean-to, carried it across the hilltop to the mouth of the shaft—carefully, working hard not to jostle Pablo. There were some terrible smells coming off the Greek’s body: the by-now-familiar stench of his shit and urine, the burned-meat stink of his stubs, and that sweeter scent, lingering underneath everything else, that first ominous hint of rot. No one said anything about it; no one said anything about Pablo at all, in fact. He was still unconscious, and appeared worse than ever. It wasn’t just his legs Amy had to avoid looking at; it was also his face. When she’d first applied to medical school, she’d gone on some campus tours, and she’d seen the cadavers the students dissected: gray-skinned, sunken-eyed, slack-mouthed. That was what Pablo’s face was beginning to look like, too.
They set him down beside the shaft. The chirping had stopped, but now, as soon as they arrived, it started up again, and they all stood there, staring into the darkness, heads cocked, listening.
It rang nine times. Then it stopped.
Mathias checked the rope. He unspooled it from the windlass, the whole thing, laying it out in a long zigzag across the little clearing, searching its hemp for weakness.
Amy stood beside the hole, peering into it, trying to gather her courage, remembering her time down there with Eric, just the two of them, the things they’d spoken of to keep their fear at bay, the lies they’d told each other. She didn’t want to return again, would’ve said no if only she could’ve thought of a way to do so. But now that they’d carried Pablo all the way across the hilltop, she couldn’t see how she had a choice.
Eric crouched, began to probe at the wound on his leg, muttering to himself. “We’ll cut it off,” he said, and Amy turned to stare at him, startled, not certain if she’d heard correctly. Then he was up and pacing once more. The vine had eaten holes in his shirt, almost shredding it. He was covered in his own blood, spattered and dripped and smeared with it. They all looked bad, but he looked the worst.
Jeff was making his torch. He used a tent pole, wrapping duct tape around its bottom for a grip so the aluminum wouldn’t grow too hot for him to hold. He knotted some of the archaeologists’ clothes around the top—a pair of denim shorts, a cotton T-shirt—tying them tight. Amy couldn’t see how it was going to work, but she didn’t say anything, was too worn-out to argue about it. If they had to attempt this, she wanted just to do it and get it done.
Mathias stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. The rope was fine. They all watched as he carefully wound it back around the windlass. When he was done, Jeff slid the sling over his head, tucking it under his arms. He was holding the box of matches, the already-opened bottle of tequila, his flimsy-looking torch. Mathias and Eric stepped to the windlass, leaning against the hand crank with all their weight. And then, without the slightest hint of hesitation, Jeff stepped into the open air above the shaft. He didn’t say anything in parting to Amy; they hadn’t talked about a plan. She was supposed to follow him into the hole—that was all she knew. The rest, they’d have to make up once they got down there.
There was that familiar creaking of the windlass. Mathias and Eric strained against its pull, letting the rope out, turn by turn, sweating with the labor of it. Amy leaned over the shaft, watched Jeff drop into the darkness; he seemed to grow smaller as he descended. She could see him for longer than she would’ve anticipated, as if he were somehow drawing the sunlight with him into the depths. He grew shadowy, ghostlike, but she could still discern him long after it seemed he should’ve vanished altogether. He didn’t return her gaze, didn’t lift his face to her, not once, kept his eyes focused downward, toward the bottom of the hole.
“Almost there,” Mathias said. It wasn’t clear whom he was talking to, perhaps himself; that was how quiet his voice was.
Amy turned, glanced at him, at the windlass. The rope was nearly played out, just a few more rotations to go. When she looked back into the shaft, Jeff was gone. The rope went down and down and down into the darkness, swaying slightly as it uncoiled, and she could no longer see its end. She had to resist the urge to call out to Jeff, the sense that he’d vanished not merely from sight but altogether.
The windlass finally stopped its creaking. Eric and Mathias joined Amy beside the hole, all three of them staring into it. Amy could hear the other two working to catch their breath. “All right?” Mathias called.
“Pull it up,” Jeff yelled back. His voice seemed far away, full of echoes, not quite his own.
Mathias rewound the windlass by himself, and it went quickly, weightless, the creaking sounding different now, higher-pitched, with an odd hint of laughter in it, which was a creepy thing to hear. It made Amy shiver, hug herself. Say no, she was thinking. You can say it. Just say it. But then Eric was handing her the sling, helping her into it, and she still hadn’t spoken. It’s not that bad, she told herself. You’ve already done it once. Why shouldn’t you do it again? And those were the words she kept in her head as she stepped out into the open air, swaying there for a moment, before she began her slow descent into the hole.
It was different in daylight. Better in some ways, worse in others. She could see more, of course, as she moved downward—could see the shaft, with the rocks and timbers embedded in its walls, the vine growing here and there in long, looping strands, like decorations for a party. But the light also heightened the feeling of transit, of crossing a border as she dropped, moving from one world into another. It was an oppressive sensation. Day into night, sight into blindness, life into death: These were the connotations. Looking up wasn’t the right idea, either—it only made things worse—because, even at this relatively shallow depth, the daylight already seemed impossibly far away. And, just as Jeff had appeared to grow smaller as he descended, now the hole looked to be shrinking, as if threatening to close altogether, like a mouth, swallowing her into the earth. She gripped the sling, concentrated on slowing her breathing, struggling to calm herself. The sling was damp—from Jeff’s body, Amy assumed, his sweat. Or maybe it was her own. She was beginning to sway back and forth, almost touching the walls of the shaft, and she tried to stop herself, but that only seemed to make it worse, a wobbly, seasick feeling stirring in her gut. She still had the taste of vomit in her mouth, and this didn’t help things, made it seem all the more possible, even with her stomach empty, that she might throw up here, puke spewing from her, splattering down on Jeff, waiting in the darkness below.
She shut her eyes.
Somehow, the feeling passed.
The air was growing cooler and cooler, cold even. Amy had forgotten about this, would’ve worn something warmer had she remembered, plundering a sweater from one of the archaeologists’ backpacks. She began to shiver, even as she continued to sweat. Nerves, she knew: fear.
By the time she opened her eyes again, Jeff had come into view. Murkily: He was there, and not there. It was like seeing him underwater, or through smoke. He had his head tilted back. Amy couldn’t make out his face, but there was something about his posture that made her certain he was smiling up at her. Despite herself—despite her fear, despite her sweating and shivering and general sense of discomfort—she smiled back.
Her feet touched the floor of the shaft. The sling went slack; the creaking stopped. And it was odd, because the sudden silence gave her a panicky sensation, a tightness in her chest. “Well,” she said, just for the sound of the words, to break that eerie quiet. “Here we are.”
Jeff was helping her out of the sling. “It’s incredible,” he said. “Isn’t it? How far down do you think we are?”
Amy was too startled by the obvious excitement in his voice, the pleasure, to answer him. He was enjoying this, she realized. Even with everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, somehow he was managing to find pleasure in this. He was like a little boy, with a little boy’s passions: the illicit joys of things underground—caves and hideouts and secret tunnels.
“Farther than I’ve ever been,” he said. “No doubt about that. You think it could be a hundred feet?”
“ Jeff, ” she said. It was strange: they were in darkness, but there was light, too. Or some hint of it, some residue dropping toward them from above. As her eyes kept adjusting, she could see more and more, the walls and floor of the shaft, and Jeff, too—his face. She could see him peering at her, his puzzled expression.
“What?” he asked.
“Let’s just find the phone, okay?”
He nodded. “Right. The phone.”
Amy watched him crouch, begin to prepare his torch. He uncapped the tequila, started to sprinkle the liquor over the knot of clothing, slowly, letting it soak in. He took his time, pouring a small trickle, then pausing, then pouring some more. Amy could smell the tequila; she was so emptied out—hungry, thirsty, tired—that the scent alone made her feel slightly drunk. She could see a sock and a shoe lying on the floor of the shaft, a few feet to Jeff’s right, and it took a long moment to realize that they were Pablo’s. They were the ones Eric had removed yesterday so that he could scrape the bottom of Pablo’s foot to see if his spine was broken. They’d forgotten them in the flurry of their departure last night, and now they were already covered with a thin growth of vine. Amy almost bent to retrieve them, thinking Pablo would want them, but then she caught herself, feeling stupid. And wretched, too, because—morbidly—she’d started to smile. No need for socks and shoes anymore, of course, not for Pablo, not ever again.
“There was a shovel there last night,” she said, surprising herself with the words. She hadn’t thought them out first, hadn’t even been conscious of noticing the shovel’s absence until she’d heard herself remark upon it. She pointed toward the far wall of the shaft, where the shovel had been leaning. It wasn’t there anymore.
Jeff turned, followed her gesture. “Are you sure?” he asked.
She nodded. “It was the kind you can fold up.”
Jeff stared for another moment, then returned to his torch, dribbling more tequila across it. “Maybe they took it,” he said.
“They?”
“The vines.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Mathias and I were trying to dig a hole earlier, using a rock and a tent stake—for a latrine, and to distill our urine. Maybe they don’t want us to be able to do that.”
Amy was silent. There was so much to contest in this that she felt something like panic in the face of it, a buzzing sensation rising in her head. She didn’t know where to begin. “You’re saying they can see? They could see you digging?”
Jeff shrugged. “They have to have some way of sensing things. How else would they be able to reach out and take Pablo’s feet like that?”
Pheromones,Amy was thinking. Reflexes. She didn’t want the vine to be able to see, was horrified by the prospect of this, wanted its actions to be automatic, preconscious. “And it can communicate?” she said.
Jeff stopped with the bottle, capped it; the clothes were thoroughly saturated now. “What do you mean?”
“They saw you digging up there, and then they told the ones down here to hide the shovel.” She wanted to laugh, the idea seemed so absurd. But something was keeping her from laughing, that buzzing in her head.
“I guess,” Jeff said.
“And they think? ”
“Definitely.”
“But—”
“They dragged down my sign. How could they have known to do that without—”
“They’re plants, Jeff. Plants don’t see. They don’t communicate. They don’t think. They—”
“Was there a shovel there last night?” He gestured toward the shaft’s far wall.
“I think so. I—”
“Then where is it now?”
Amy was silent. She couldn’t answer this.
“If something moved it,” Jeff said, “don’t you think it makes sense to assume it was the vine?”
Before she could respond, the chirping resumed. It was coming from her left, down the open shaft. Jeff fumbled quickly with the box of matches, plucked one out, struck it into flame, held it to the knot of clothing. The alcohol seemed to grab at the match, sucking its light into itself with a fluttering sound, a cloud of pale blue fire materializing around the torch. Jeff lifted it up, held it before them; it gave off a weak, tenuous glow, which seemed constantly on the verge of going out. Amy could tell it wouldn’t last long.
“Quick,” he said, waving her toward the open shaft.
The chirping continued—it was up to three rings now—and the two of them rushed forward, hurrying to find it before it fell silent again. Five rapid strides and they were into the shaft, a steady stream of cold air pushing against them, making the torch in Jeff’s hand shudder weakly. Amy felt a moment’s terror, leaving that small square of open sky behind, the ceiling dropping low enough for Jeff to have to crouch as he moved forward. The darkness seemed to press in on them, to constrict somehow with each step they took, as if the walls and ceiling of the shaft were shifting inward. The vine, oddly, in such a lightless place, appeared to be growing in great profusion here, covering every available surface. They were wading through it, knee-deep, and it was hanging toward them from above, too, brushing against Amy’s face; if she hadn’t been so desperate to find the phone, she would’ve immediately turned and fled.
There came a fourth chirp, still in front of them, drawing them more deeply into the shaft. Amy could sense a wall somewhere ahead—even in the darkness, even without being able to glimpse it yet—somehow she knew that the shaft came to an end in another thirty feet or so. The chirping had an echo to it, but it still seemed clear to her that the phone was by this far wall, lying on the floor, buried beneath the vines. They’d need to get on their hands and knees to search for it. She was nearly running now, her eagerness to find the phone before it stopped ringing combining with her terror of this place, both of them working together to push her onward.
Jeff was moving more cautiously, hanging back. She was leaving him and his torch behind her, the vine brushing against her body, but softly, caressingly, seeming almost to part to allow her passage.
“Wait,” Jeff said, and then he stopped altogether, holding the flickering torch out before him, trying to see more clearly.
Amy ignored him; all she wanted was to get there, to find it, to leave. She could see the wall now, or something like it: a shadow materializing in front of her, a blockage.
“Amy,” Jeff said, louder now, his voice echoing back at her from the approaching wall. She hesitated, slowing, half-turning, and it came to her suddenly that the vine was moving, that this was the sense of constriction she was feeling; it wasn’t simply the darkness deepening, the shaft narrowing. No, it was the flowers. Hanging from the ceiling, the walls, rising toward her from the floor, the flowers on the vine were moving, opening and closing like so many tiny mouths. Realizing this, she nearly stopped altogether. But then the phone chirped a fifth time, drawing her on; she knew there wouldn’t be many more rings. And it was close now, too—right against the wall, she guessed. All she had to do was drop onto her—
“Amy!” Jeff yelled, startling her. He was moving again, hurrying toward her, the torch held up before him. “Don’t—”
“It’s right here,” she said. She took another step. It was silly, but she wanted to be the one to find it. “It’s—”
“ Stop! ” he shouted. And then, before she could respond, he was right beside her, grabbing her arm, jerking her back a step, pulling her close to him. She sensed his face beside her own, felt its warmth, heard him whisper, “There’s no phone.”
“What?” she asked, confused. A sixth chirp sounded right then, seeming to emerge from the vines directly in front of them. Amy tried to pull free. “It’s—”
Jeff yanked her back, his grip tight, hurting her. He bent, whispered again, right into her ear. “It’s the vine,” he said. “The flowers. They’re making the noise.”
She shook her head, not believing, not wanting to believe. “No. It’s right—”
Jeff leaned forward with the torch, shoving it down toward the floor of the shaft, into the mass of vines a few feet in front of them. The vines flinched away from the fire, parting as the torch approached, creating an opening in their midst. They moved so quickly, they seemed to hiss. Jeff crouched, pushing the flames downward into what ought to have been the floor but was open darkness instead, the draft increasing suddenly, stirring Amy’s hair, disorienting her. Jeff was waving the torch back and forth now, widening the hole he’d created, and it took Amy several seconds to realize what she was seeing, what this darkness was, why there was no floor here. It was the mouth of another shaft, dropping straight down; the vines had been growing across it, hiding it from sight. A trap, she realized. They’d been luring her and Jeff forward, hoping they’d step into open air here, fall into the darkness.
There was a sharp whistling sound, like a whip might make, and one of the vines lashed out, wrapped itself around the aluminum handle of Jeff’s torch, yanked it from his grip. Amy watched it fall, its light fluttering, almost failing, but still burning even as it hit bottom, thirty feet beneath them. She had a glimpse of white— bones, she thought—and what might’ve been a skull staring up at her. The shovel was there, too, and more of the vine, a writhing, snakelike mass of it, recoiling from the little knot of fire burning in its midst. Then the flames flickered, dimmed, went out.
It was dark after this, terribly dark, darker than Amy would’ve thought possible. For a moment, all she could hear was Jeff’s breathing beside her, and the faint thump of her own heartbeat in her ears, but then that whistling sound came again, louder this time, denser, and she knew even before they began to grab at her that it was the vines she was hearing. They seemed to come from every direction at once, from the walls and the floor and the ceiling, smacking against her body, wrapping themselves around her arms and legs—even her neck—pulling her toward the open shaft.
Amy screamed, scrambling backward, tearing at them with her hands, yanking free one limb, only to feel another immediately become ensnared. The vine wasn’t strong enough to overpower her in this manner—it tore too easily, its sap bleeding across her skin, burning her—but it kept coming, more and more of it. She spun and kicked and continued to scream, panicking now, losing her sense of direction, until finally, in the darkness, she could no longer tell which way led to safety, which to the shaft’s open mouth.
“Jeff?” she called, and then she felt his hand grasping her, pulling her, and she surrendered, following him, the vines thrashing at both of them, grabbing and tearing and burning.
Jeff shouted something, but she couldn’t understand it. He was dragging her backward, the two of them stumbling, falling over each other, onto their hands and knees amid the vines, which caught at them, trying to hold them down, and then they were up again, and there was a faint hint of light in front of them, and they were sprinting for it, Jeff pulling Amy by her arm, the vines falling away behind them, going still again, motionless, silent.
Amy saw the sling hanging from its rope. And then, up above, that little window of sky. When she craned backward, peering toward it, she could see Eric and Mathias, the shadowed outline of their two heads, staring down at her.
“Jeff?” Mathias called.
Jeff didn’t bother answering. He was looking back toward the open shaft behind them. It was just darkness there now, with that steady push of cold air, but he seemed reluctant to take his eyes from it. “Get in the sling,” he said to her.
Amy could hear how short of breath he was. She was, too, and she stood beside him for a long moment, not moving, struggling to regain herself.
Jeff crouched, grabbed the bottle of tequila, uncapped it. He picked up Pablo’s sock, spilled some of the liquor across it.
“What’re you doing?” she whispered.
There was the sound of something stirring now from within the dark mouth of the shaft, almost inaudible, but growing steadily louder. Jeff started to stuff Pablo’s sock down the neck of the tequila bottle, using his forefinger to push it deep. The sound kept increasing in volume, still too soft to hear clearly, but oddly familiar—like the shuffle of cards—strange and horrifying and almost human.
“ Hurry, Amy,” Jeff said.
She didn’t argue; she reached for the sling, ducked her arms through it, her head.
Mathias called again: “Jeff?”
“Pull her up!”
Amy tilted her head back, looked. The heads were still visible, peering down at her from that tiny rectangle of sky. She knew they couldn’t see her in the darkness, though. She saw Mathias cup his hands around his mouth. “What happened?” he yelled.
Jeff was fumbling with the box of matches. “Now!” he shouted.
The sound was louder—a little louder with every passing second—and as it climbed in volume, it grew steadily more familiar. Amy knew what it was; it was in her head, this knowledge, but just out of reach. She didn’t want to hear any more, didn’t want the knowledge to reveal itself. The sling gave a jerk, and then that creaking began again, dropping toward her from above, blotting out this other sound, the one she didn’t want to know, and she was in motion, rising into the air, her feet swinging free of the shaft’s floor. Jeff didn’t even glance at her. His gaze moved back and forth, from the box of matches to the darkness where that sound lurked, even now continuing to gain in volume, as if intent on following her upward into the light, capturing her, dragging her back down.
Beneath her, Amy saw Jeff’s hand flick, a match burst into flame. He held it to Pablo’s sock, the tequila catching instantly, coming alight with the same pale blue fire as the torch. Jeff rose to his feet, held the bottle out to his side for a moment, making sure it was burning steadily. Then, side-armed, like a grenade, he threw it down the open shaft. Amy heard the bottle shatter, and a glow swept outward, illuminating Jeff more fully.
A Molotov cocktail,she thought. It seemed odd to her that she should know the name for this; she pictured Poles throwing them impotently at Russian tanks, a futile, desperate gesture. Beneath her, Jeff stood perfectly still, staring off into the shaft; the fire was already dimming, and she kept rising so steadily. Soon, she knew—quite soon—she’d lose sight of him altogether. The flames ought to have stopped that dreadful noise, that sound she recognized yet didn’t want to know, and at first this seemed to be the case, but then the noise resumed again, more quietly, and yet in a manner that somehow seemed to envelop her completely. It took Amy a moment to realize that the sound wasn’t coming from beneath her any longer; it was all around her now, and above her, too. Jeff was slipping from sight, the fire dying out, the shadows reclaiming him, and as she lifted her eyes to see how much farther she had to climb, a hint of movement caught her gaze, held it fast. It was the plants hanging from the walls of the shaft, paler, more spindly versions of their cousins up above. Their tiny flowers were opening and closing. This was what was making that terrible noise, Amy realized—it was coming so much more softly now, insidiously—the sound she finally had no choice but to recognize, to acknowledge, the sound she also guessed was being echoed all across the hillside.
They’re laughing,she thought.
O nce they’d pulled them both back up from the shaft, there wasn’t much left to do. Jeff was out of plans, for once; he seemed a little dazed by what he’d witnessed down there. They carried Pablo back to his lean-to; then they all sat together—everyone but Stacy, who was still at the base of the hill, waiting for the Greeks—and passed around the plastic jug of water. Eric noticed that Jeff’s hands were shaking as he reached to take his allotted swallow, and he felt an odd sense of pleasure in this. After all, his own hands were shaking—they had been for quite some time now—so it felt good to see the others beginning to join him. The miserable misery of the miser, he thought. For some reason, he couldn’t get the words out of his mind, and he had to keep resisting the urge to speak them.
“They were laughing at us,” Amy whispered.
No one said anything. Mathias capped the jug, stood up and returned it to the tent. Jeff had told them what had happened as soon as he’d emerged from the hole, how it was the plants who’d been making that cell phone noise, trying to lure them into a trap, and even this disappointment, with its accompanying freight of terror, had held some solace for Eric. Because now they were going to see; now, having witnessed the vine’s power, they were going to believe him when he said it was still in his body, growing, eating him from the inside out. He could still feel it, certainly; he couldn’t stop feeling it. There was a burrowing sensation in his leg, something small and wormlike in the flesh beside his shinbone, constantly in motion, probing and chewing. It seemed to be working its way toward his foot. And then, higher up, in his chest, there was no movement at all, only a steady pressure, impossible to ignore. Eric imagined some sort of void there, just beneath his ribs, a natural cavity within his body that was slowly being filled by the vine, the plant twisting back upon itself as it grew, shoving his organs aside, taking up more and more space with each passing moment. He believed that if he were to cut himself at this spot, just the smallest of incisions, the plant would tumble outward into the light, smeared with his blood, like some horrific newborn, writhing and twisting, its flowers opening and closing, a dozen tiny mouths begging to be fed.
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