"Tell us what'll happen when we get home," Stacy said.
They watched him take another swallow of tequila, his eyes watering from it. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, then recapped the bottle. "Well, we'll be famous, won't we? At least for a while?"
They both nodded. Of course they'd be famous.
"The cover of People magazine, maybe," Eric continued, warming to the idea. "Time, too, probably. And then somebody'll want to buy the film rights. We'll have to be smart there, stay together, all of us signing something, some document, agreeing to sell the story as a group-we'll get more money that way. We'll need a lawyer, I guess, or an agent."
"They'll make a movie out of it?" Stacy asked. She looked excited by the idea, but surprised, too.
"That's right."
"Who'll play me?"
Eric peered at Stacy, considered. Then he smiled, waving at her chest. "Your tit's hanging out, you know."
Stacy glanced down, adjusted her shirt. There wasn't really enough of it left to cover her breast, but she didn't seem to care. "Seriously. Who'll play me?'
"First, you have to decide who you are."
"Who I am?"
"'Cause they'll have to change us some, you know. Make us more into characters. They'll need a hero, a villain-that sort of thing. See what I'm saying?"
Stacy nodded. "And which am I?"
"Well, there are two female parts, right? So one of you will have to be the good girl, the prissy one, and the other one'll have to be the slut." He thought about this, then shrugged. "I guess Amy would be the prissy one, don't you think?"
Stacy frowned, taking this in. She didn't say anything.
"So you'd, you know-you'd be the slut."
"Fuck you, Eric." She sounded angry.
"What? I'm just saying-"
"You're the villain, then. If I have to be the-"
Eric shook his head. "No way. I'm the funny guy. I'm the Adam Sandler character. Or Jim Carrey. The one who shouldn't be there, who came along by mistake, who keeps stumbling into the others, tripping over things. I'm the comic relief."
"Then who's the villain?"
"Mathias is the villain-definitely. Those scary Germans. They'll have him lure us here on purpose. The vine'll be some sort of Nazi experiment gone awry. His father was a scientist, maybe, and he's brought us here to feed daddy's plants."
"And the hero?"
"Jeff-no doubt about that. Bruce Willis, stoically saving the day. An ex-Boy Scout." He turned to Amy. "Was Jeff a Boy Scout? I bet Jeff was a Boy Scout."
Amy nodded. "An Eagle Scout."
They laughed at this, all three of them, though it wasn't a joke. He really had been an Eagle Scout. His mother had a framed clipping from the local paper hanging in their front hall; it showed Jeff in his uniform, shaking hands with the governor of Massachusetts. Amy felt an odd tightness in her chest when she thought of this, a sudden sense of warmth toward him, a protectiveness. She remembered the way it had been down in the shaft, the vines whipping through the dark, grabbing at her, pulling her toward that hole. She'd glimpsed the bones at the bottom before the torch fluttered out; other people had died there-she might've, too. And it wasn't because of any skill or foresight on her own part that she'd survived. Jeff had saved her. Jeff would save them all, if they'd only let him. They shouldn't be laughing at him.
"It's not funny," she said, but her voice came out too quietly, and the other two were too drunk. They didn't seem to hear her.
"Who's going to play me?" Stacy repeated.
Eric waved the question aside. "It doesn't matter. Somebody who looks good with her tit hanging out of her shirt."
"You'll be the fat one," Stacy said, sounding angry again. "The fat, sweaty one."
They were going to start fighting now, Amy realized-she recognized the tone. Another exchange or two like that, and they'd begin to shout at each other. She didn't think she could handle this-not here, not now. So she tried to distract them. "What about me?" she asked.
"You?" Eric said.
"Who's going to play me?"
Eric pursed his lips, considering this. He uncapped the bottle, took another sip, then held it out toward Stacy, a peace offering. She accepted it, tilting her head back, taking a big swallow, almost chugging. She giggled as she lowered the bottle, pleased with herself, her eyes shining strangely, looking glazed.
"Someone who can sing," Eric said.
"That's right." Stacy nodded. "So they can have musical numbers."
Eric was smiling. "A duet with the Boy Scout."
"Madonna, maybe."
Eric snorted. "Britney Spears."
"Mandy Moore."
They were both laughing. "Sing for us, Amy," Eric said.
Amy was smiling, feeling confused, ready to be affronted. She couldn't tell if they were laughing at her or if it was something she should find funny, too. She was just as drunk as they were, she realized.
"Sing ‘One is the loneliest number,'" Stacy said.
"Yeah," Eric nodded. "That's perfect."
They were both grinning at her now, waiting. Stacy offered her the bottle, and Amy took a swallow from it, shutting her eyes. When she opened them again, they were still waiting. So she started to sing: "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do. Two can be as bad as one. It's the loneliest number since the number one. No is the saddest experience you'll ever know. Yes, it's the saddest experience you'll ever know. 'Cause one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do. One is the loneliest number, worse than two…" She trailed off, feeling out of breath, dizzy with it. She handed the bottle to Eric. "I can't remember the rest," she said. It wasn't true; she just didn't want to sing anymore. The lyrics were making her sad, and for a while there she'd been feeling okay-or almost okay, at least. She didn't want to feel sad.
Eric took a long swallow. They were two-thirds of the way through the bottle now. He clambered to his feet, stepped across the clearing, a little unsteady in his gait. He bent, picked something up, then came teetering back toward them. He had the bottle in one hand; in the other, he was holding the knife. Amy and Stacy both stared at it. Amy didn't want it to be there, but she couldn't think of anything to say that might make him put it down. She watched him spit on its blade, try to clean it on his shirt. Then he waved the knife toward her. "You can sing it at the end. When you're the last one left."
"‘The last one left?'" Amy asked. She wanted to reach out and take the knife from him, tried to order her arm to rise, to move in his direction, yet nothing happened. She was very, very drunk, she knew-and so tired, too. She wasn't equal to this.
"When everyone else is killed off," Eric said.
Amy shook her head. "Don't. That's not funny."
He ignored her. "The Boy Scout'll live-he's the hero; he has to survive. You'll just think he's dead. You'll sing your song, and he'll pop back to life. And then you'll escape somehow. He'll build a hot-air balloon out of the tent and you'll float away to safety."
"I'll die?" Stacy said. She seemed alarmed by the possibility, wide-eyed with it. She was beginning to slur her words. "Why do I have to die?"
"The slut has to die. No question. Because you're bad. You have to be punished."
Stacy looked hurt by this. "What about the funny guy?"
"He's the first-he's always the first. And in some stupid way, too. So people will laugh when he goes."
"Like how?"
"He gets cut, maybe, and the vine pushes its way into his leg. It eats him from the inside out."
Amy knew what he was going to do next, and she raised her hand, finally, to stop him. But she was too late. He was doing it-it was done. He'd lifted his shirt, cut a four-inch slit along the base of his rib cage. Stacy gasped. Amy sat with her arm held out, uselessly, before her. A horizontal line of blood crested the lip of Eric's wound, swept downward across his stomach, soaking into the waistband of his shorts. He watched it, frowning, probing at the cut with the point of the knife, prying it farther open, the bleeding increasing.