The Hunger Games Part 2: The Games
Chapter 11
Sixty seconds. That’s how long we’re required to stand on our metal circles
before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land
before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land
mines blow your legs off. Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all
equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone with a
curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feet high, spilling over with the
things that will give us life here in the arena. Food, containers of water, weapons,
medicine, garments, fire starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are other
supplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from the horn. For instance,
only a few steps from my feet lays a three-foot square of plastic. Certainly it could
be of some use in a downpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack that
would protect from almost any sort of weather. If I had the guts to go in and fight
for it against the other twenty-three tributes. Which I have been instructed not to
do.
We’re on a flat, open stretch of ground. A plain of hard-packed dirt. Behind the
tributes across from me, I can see nothing, indicating either a steep downward
slope or even cliff. To my right lies a lake. To my left and back, spars piney woods.
This is where Haymitch would want me to go. Immediately.
I hear his instructions in my head. “Just clear out, put as much distance as you
can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water.”
But it’s tempting, so tempting, when I see the bounty waiting there before me.
And I know that if I don’t get it, someone else will. That the Career Tributes who
survive the bloodbath will divide up most of these life-sustaining spoils. Something
catches my eye. There, resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is a silver sheath of
arrows and a bow, already strung, just waiting to be engaged. That’s mine, I think.
It’s meant for me.
I’m fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our school although a couple
can beat me in distance races. But this forty-yard length, this is what I am built for.
I know I can get it, I know I can reach it first, but then the question is how quickly
can I get out of there? By the time I’ve scrambled up the packs and grabbed the
weapons, others will have reached the horn, and one or two I might be able to pick
off, but say there’s a dozen, at that close range, they could take me down with the
spears and the clubs. Or their own powerful fists.
Still, I won’t be the only target. I’m betting many of the other tributes would
pass up a smaller girl, even one who scored an eleven in training, to take out their
more fierce adversaries.
Haymitch has never seen me run. Maybe if he had he’d tell me to go for it. Get
the weapon. Since that’s the very weapon that might be my salvation. And I only
see one bow in that whole pile. I know the minute must be almost up and will have
to decide what my strategy will be and I find myself positioning my feet to run, not
away into the stir rounding forests but toward the pile, toward the bow. When
suddenly I notice Peeta, he’s about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance,
still I can tell he’s looking at me and I think he might be shaking his head. But the
sun’s in my eyes, and while I’m puzzling over it the gong rings out.
And I’ve missed it! I’ve missed my chance! Because those extra couple of
seconds I’ve lost by not being ready are enough to change my mind about going
in. My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take
in. My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take
and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The
pickings are so small and I’m so angry with Peeta for distracting me that I sprint in
twenty yards to retrieve a bright orange backpack that could hold anything
because I can’t stand leaving with virtually nothing.
A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the same time I do and for a
brief time we grapple for it and then he coughs, splattering my face with blood. I
stagger back, repulsed by the warm, sticky spray. Then the boy slips to the
ground. That’s when I see the knife in his back. Already other tributes have
reached the Cornucopia and are spreading out to attack. Yes, the girl from District
2, ten yards away, running toward me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. I’ve
seen her throw in training. She never misses. And I’m her next target.
All the general fear I’ve been feeling condenses into at immediate fear of this
girl, this predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and
I sling the pack over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear the
blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head.
The blade lodges in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders now, I make for the
trees. Somehow I know the girl will not pursue me. That she’ll be drawn back into
the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin crosses my face. Thanks
for the knife, I think.
At the edge of the woods I turn for one instant to survey the field. About a
dozen or so tributes are hacking away at one another at the horn. Several lie dead
already on the ground. Those who have taken flight are disappearing into the trees
or into the void opposite me. I continue running until the woods have hidden me
from the other tributes then slow into a steady jog that I think I can maintain for a
while. For the next few hours, I alternate between jogging and walking, putting as
much distance as I can between myself and my competitors. I lost my bread during
the struggle with the boy from District 9 but managed to stuff my plastic in my
sleeve so as I walk I fold it neatly and tuck it into a pocket. I also free the knife
— it’s a fine one with a long sharp blade, serrated near the handle, which will
make it handy for sawing through things — and slide it into my belt. I don’t dare
stop to examine the contents of the pack yet. I just keep moving, pausing only to
check for pursuers.
I can go a long time. I know that from my days in the woods. But I will need
water. That was Haymitch’s second instruction, and since I sort of botched the
first, I keep a sharp eye out for any sign of it. No luck.
The woods begin to evolve, and the pines are intermixed with a variety of
trees, some I recognize, some completely foreign to me. At one point, I hear a
noise and pull my knife, thinking I may have to defend myself, but I’ve only startled
a rabbit. “Good to see you,” I whisper. If there’s one rabbit, there could be
hundreds just waiting to be snared.
The ground slopes down. I don’t particularly like this. Valleys make me feel
trapped. I want to be high, like in the hills around District 12, where I can see my
enemies approaching. But I have no choice but to keep going.
Funny though, I don’t feel too bad. The days of gorging myself have paid off.
I’ve got staying power even though I’m short on sleep. Being in the woods is
rejuvenating. I’m glad for the solitude, even though it’s an illusion, because I’m
probably on-screen right now. Not consistently but off and on. There are so many
deaths to show the first day that a tribute trekking through the woods isn’t much
to look at. But they’ll show me enough to let people know I’m alive, uninjured and
on the move. One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, when the initial
casualties come in. But that can’t compare to what happens as the field shrinks to
a handful of players.
It’s late afternoon when I begin to hear the cannons. Each shot represents a
dead tribute. The fighting must have finally stopped at the Cornucopia. They never
collect the bloodbath bodies until the killers have dispersed. On the opening day,
they don’t even fire the cannons until the initial fighting’s over because it’s too
hard to keep track of the fatalities. I allow myself to pause, panting, as I count the
shots. One . . . two . . . three . . . on and on until they reach eleven. Eleven dead in
all. Thirteen left to play. My fingernails scrape at the dried blood the boy from
District 9 coughed into my face. He’s gone, certainly. I wonder about Peeta. Has
he lasted through the day? I’ll know in a few hours. When they project the dead’s
images into the sky for the rest of us to see.
All of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed by the thought that Peeta may be already
lost, bled white, collected, and in the process of being transported back to the
Capitol to be cleaned up, redressed, and shipped in a simple wooden box back to
District 12. No longer here. Heading home. I try hard to remember if I saw him
once the action started. But the last image I can conjure up is Peeta shaking his
head as the gong rang out.
Maybe it’s better, if he’s gone already. He had no confidence he could win. And
I will not end up with the unpleasant task of killing him. Maybe it’s better if he’s
out of this for good.
I slump down next to my pack, exhausted. I need to go through it anyway
before night falls. See what I have to work with. As I unhook the straps, I can feel
it’s sturdily made although a rather unfortunate color. This orange will practically
glow in the dark. I make a mental note to camouflage it first thing tomorrow.
I flip open the flap. What I want most, right at this moment, is water.
Haymitch’s directive to immediately find water was not arbitrary. I won’t last long
without it. For a few days, I’ll be able to function with unpleasant symptoms of
dehydration, but after that I'll deteriorate into helplessness and be dead in a week,
tops. I carefully lay out the provisions. One thin black sleeping bag that reflects
body heal. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box
of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. And a half-gallon
plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that's bone dry.
No water. How hard would it have been for them to fill up the bottle? I become
aware of the dryness in my throat and mouth, the cracks in my lips. I've been
moving all day long. It's been hot and I've sweat a lot. I do this at home, but there
are always streams to drink from, or snow to melt if it should come to it.
As I refill my pack I have an awful thought. The lake. The one I saw while I was
waiting for the gong to sound. What if that's the only water source in the arena?
waiting for the gong to sound. What if that's the only water source in the arena?
That way they'll guarantee drawing us in to fight. The lake is a full day's journey
from where I sit now, a much harder journey with nothing to drink. And then, even
if I reach it, it's sure to be heavily guarded by some of the Career Tributes. I'm
about to panic when I remember the rabbit I startled earlier today. It has to drink,
too. I just have to find out where.
Twilight is closing in and I am ill at ease. The trees are too thin to offer much
concealment. The layer of pine needles that muffles my footsteps also makes
tracking animals harder when I need their trails to find water. And I'm still heading
downhill, deeper and deeper into a valley that seems endless.
I’m hungry, too, but I don’t dare break into my precious store of crackers and beef
yet. Instead, I take my knife and go to work on a pine tree, cutting away the outer
bark and scraping off a large handful of the softer inner bark. I slowly chew the
stuff as I walk along. After a week of the finest food in the world, it’s a little hard to
choke down. But I’ve eaten plenty of pine in my life. I’ll adjust quickly.
In another hour, it’s clear I’ve got to find a place to camp. Night creatures are
coming out. I can hear the occasional hoot or howl, my first clue that I’ll be
competing with natural predators for the rabbits. As to whether I’ll be viewed as a
source of food, it’s too soon to tell. There could be any number of animals stalking
me at this moment.
But right now, I decide to make my fellow tributes a priority. I’m sure many will
continue hunting through the night. Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will
have food, an abundance of water from the lake, torches or flashlights, and
weapons they’re itching to use. I can only hope I’ve traveled far and fast enough to
be out of range.
Before settling down, I take my wire and set two twitch-up snares in the brush.
I know it’s risky to be setting traps, but food will go so fast out here. And I can’t set
snares on the run. Still, I walk another five minutes before making camp.
I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set in a clump of other
willows, offering concealment in those long, flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to
the stronger branches close to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my bed. It takes
some doing, but I arrange the sleeping bag in a relatively comfortable manner. I
place my backpack in the foot of the bag, then slide in after it. As a precaution, I
remove my belt, loop it all the way around the branch and my sleeping bag, and
refasten it at my waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won’t go crashing to the
ground. I’m small enough to tuck the top of the bag over my head, but I put on my
hood as well. As night falls, the air is cooling quickly. Despite the risk I took in
getting the backpack, I know now it was the right choice. This sleeping bag,
radiating back and preserving my body heat, will be invaluable. I’m sure there are
several other tributes whose biggest concern right now is how to stay warm
whereas I may actually be able to get a few hours of sleep. If only I wasn’t so
thirsty . . .
Night has just come when I hear the anthem that proceeds the death recap.
Through the branches I can see the seal of the Capitol, which appears to be
floating in the sky. I’m actually viewing another screen, an enormous one that’s
floating in the sky. I’m actually viewing another screen, an enormous one that’s
transported by of one of their disappearing hovercraft. The anthem fades out and
the sky goes dark for a moment. At home, we would be watching full coverage of
each and every killing, but that’s thought to give an unfair advantage to the living
tributes. For instance, if I got my hands on the bow and shot someone, my secret
would be revealed to all. No, here in the arena, all we see are the same
photographs they showed when they televised our training scores. Simple head
shots. But now instead of scores they post only district numbers. I take a deep
breath as the face of the eleven dead tributes begin and tick them off one by one
on my fingers.
The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means that the Career
Tributes from 1 and 2 have all survived. No surprise there. Then the boy from 4. I
didn’t expect that one, usually all the Careers make it through the first day. The
boy from District 5 . . . I guess the fox-faced girl made it. Both tributes from 6 and
7. The boy from 8. Both from 9. Yes, there’s the boy who I fought for the backpack.
I’ve run through my fingers, only one more dead tribute to go. Is it Peeta? No,
there’s the girl from District 10. That’s it. The Capitol seal is back with a final
musical flourish. Then darkness and the sounds of the forest resume.
I’m relieved Peeta’s alive. I tell myself again that if I get killed, his winning will
benefit my mother and Prim the most. This is what I tell myself to explain the
conflicting emotions that arise when I think of Peeta. The gratitude that he gave
me an edge by professing his love for me in the interview. The anger at his
superiority on the roof. The dread that we may come face-to-face at any moment
in this arena.
Eleven dead, but none from District 12. I try to work out who is left. Five Career
Tributes. Foxface. Thresh and Rue. Rue . . . so she made it through the first day
after all. I can’t help feeling glad. That makes ten of us. The other three I’ll figure
out tomorrow. Now when it is dark, and I have traveled far, and I am nestled high
in this tree, now I must try and rest.
I haven’t really slept in two days, and then there’s been the long day’s journey
into the arena. Slowly, I allow my muscles to relax. My eyes to close. The last thing
I think is it’s lucky I don’t snore. . . .
Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me. How long have I been
asleep? Four hours? Five? The tip of my nose is icy cold. Snap! Snap! What’s going
on? This is not the sound of a branch under someone’s foot, but the sharp crack of
one coming from a tree. Snap! Snap! I judge it to be several hundred yards to my
right. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. For a few minutes, there’s
nothing but blackness and some scuffling. Then I see a spark and a small fire
begins to bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can’t make out more
than that.
I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I know at the fire starter.
What are they thinking? A fire I’ll just at nightfall would have been one thing.
Those who battled at the Cornucopia, with their superior strength and surplus of
supplies, they couldn’t possibly have been near enough to spot the flames then.
But now, when they’ve probably been combing the woods for hours looking for
victims. You might as well be waving a flag and shouting, “Come and get me!”
And here I am a stone’s throw from the biggest idiot in
the Games. Strapped in a tree. Not daring to flee since my
general location has just been broadcast to any killer who
cares. I mean, I know it’s cold out here and not everybody
has a sleeping bag. But then you grit your teeth and stick it
out until dawn!
I lay smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours really thinking that if I
can get out of this tree, I won’t have the least problem taking out my new
neighbor. My instinct has been to flee, not fight. But obviously this person’s a
hazard. Stupid people are dangerous. And this one probably doesn’t have much in
the way of weapons while I’ve got this excellent knife.
The sky is still dark, but I can feel the first signs of dawn approaching. I’m
beginning to think we — meaning the person whose death I’m now devising and
me — we might actually have gone unnoticed. Then I hear it. Several pairs of feet
breaking into a run. The fire starter must have dozed off. They’re on her before
she can escape. I know it’s a girl now, I can tell by the pleading, the agonized
scream that follows. Then there’s laughter and congratulations from several
voices. Someone cries out, “Twelve down and eleven to go!” which gets a round of
appreciative hoots.
So they’re fighting in a pack. I’m not really surprised. Often alliances are
formed in the early stages of the Games. The strong band together to hunt down
the weak then, when the tension becomes too great, begin to turn on one another.
I don’t have to wonder too hard who has made this alliance. It’ll be the remaining
Career Tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4. Two boys and three girls. The ones who
lunched together.
For a moment, I hear them checking the girl for supplies. I can tell by their
comments they’ve found nothing good. I wonder if the victim is Rue but quickly
dismiss the thought. She’s much too bright to be building a fire like that.
“Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking.” I’m almost
certain that’s the brutish boy from District 2. There are murmurs of assent and
then, to my horror, I hear the pack heading toward me. They do not know I’m
here. How could they? And I’m well concealed in the clump of trees. At least while
the sun stays down. Then my black sleeping bag will turn from camouflage to
trouble. If they just keep moving, they will pass me and be gone in a minute.
But the Careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from my tree. They have
flashlights, torches. I can see an arm here, a boot there, through the breaks in the
branches. I turn to stone, not even daring to breathe. Have they spotted me? No,
not yet. I can tell from their words their minds are elsewhere.
“Shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?”
“I’d say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately.”
“Unless she isn’t dead.”
“She’s dead. I stuck her myself.”
“Then where’s the cannon?”
“Someone should go back. Make sure the job’s done.”
“Yeah, we don’t want to have to track her down twice.”
“I said she’s dead!”
An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others. “We’re wasting
time! I’ll go finish her and let’s move on!”
I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta.
Chapter 11
Sixty seconds. That’s how long we’re required to stand on our metal circles
before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land
before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land
mines blow your legs off. Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all
equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone with a
curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feet high, spilling over with the
things that will give us life here in the arena. Food, containers of water, weapons,
medicine, garments, fire starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are other
supplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from the horn. For instance,
only a few steps from my feet lays a three-foot square of plastic. Certainly it could
be of some use in a downpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack that
would protect from almost any sort of weather. If I had the guts to go in and fight
for it against the other twenty-three tributes. Which I have been instructed not to
do.
We’re on a flat, open stretch of ground. A plain of hard-packed dirt. Behind the
tributes across from me, I can see nothing, indicating either a steep downward
slope or even cliff. To my right lies a lake. To my left and back, spars piney woods.
This is where Haymitch would want me to go. Immediately.
I hear his instructions in my head. “Just clear out, put as much distance as you
can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water.”
But it’s tempting, so tempting, when I see the bounty waiting there before me.
And I know that if I don’t get it, someone else will. That the Career Tributes who
survive the bloodbath will divide up most of these life-sustaining spoils. Something
catches my eye. There, resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is a silver sheath of
arrows and a bow, already strung, just waiting to be engaged. That’s mine, I think.
It’s meant for me.
I’m fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our school although a couple
can beat me in distance races. But this forty-yard length, this is what I am built for.
I know I can get it, I know I can reach it first, but then the question is how quickly
can I get out of there? By the time I’ve scrambled up the packs and grabbed the
weapons, others will have reached the horn, and one or two I might be able to pick
off, but say there’s a dozen, at that close range, they could take me down with the
spears and the clubs. Or their own powerful fists.
Still, I won’t be the only target. I’m betting many of the other tributes would
pass up a smaller girl, even one who scored an eleven in training, to take out their
more fierce adversaries.
Haymitch has never seen me run. Maybe if he had he’d tell me to go for it. Get
the weapon. Since that’s the very weapon that might be my salvation. And I only
see one bow in that whole pile. I know the minute must be almost up and will have
to decide what my strategy will be and I find myself positioning my feet to run, not
away into the stir rounding forests but toward the pile, toward the bow. When
suddenly I notice Peeta, he’s about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance,
still I can tell he’s looking at me and I think he might be shaking his head. But the
sun’s in my eyes, and while I’m puzzling over it the gong rings out.
And I’ve missed it! I’ve missed my chance! Because those extra couple of
seconds I’ve lost by not being ready are enough to change my mind about going
in. My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take
in. My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take
and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The
pickings are so small and I’m so angry with Peeta for distracting me that I sprint in
twenty yards to retrieve a bright orange backpack that could hold anything
because I can’t stand leaving with virtually nothing.
A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the same time I do and for a
brief time we grapple for it and then he coughs, splattering my face with blood. I
stagger back, repulsed by the warm, sticky spray. Then the boy slips to the
ground. That’s when I see the knife in his back. Already other tributes have
reached the Cornucopia and are spreading out to attack. Yes, the girl from District
2, ten yards away, running toward me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. I’ve
seen her throw in training. She never misses. And I’m her next target.
All the general fear I’ve been feeling condenses into at immediate fear of this
girl, this predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and
I sling the pack over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear the
blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head.
The blade lodges in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders now, I make for the
trees. Somehow I know the girl will not pursue me. That she’ll be drawn back into
the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin crosses my face. Thanks
for the knife, I think.
At the edge of the woods I turn for one instant to survey the field. About a
dozen or so tributes are hacking away at one another at the horn. Several lie dead
already on the ground. Those who have taken flight are disappearing into the trees
or into the void opposite me. I continue running until the woods have hidden me
from the other tributes then slow into a steady jog that I think I can maintain for a
while. For the next few hours, I alternate between jogging and walking, putting as
much distance as I can between myself and my competitors. I lost my bread during
the struggle with the boy from District 9 but managed to stuff my plastic in my
sleeve so as I walk I fold it neatly and tuck it into a pocket. I also free the knife
— it’s a fine one with a long sharp blade, serrated near the handle, which will
make it handy for sawing through things — and slide it into my belt. I don’t dare
stop to examine the contents of the pack yet. I just keep moving, pausing only to
check for pursuers.
I can go a long time. I know that from my days in the woods. But I will need
water. That was Haymitch’s second instruction, and since I sort of botched the
first, I keep a sharp eye out for any sign of it. No luck.
The woods begin to evolve, and the pines are intermixed with a variety of
trees, some I recognize, some completely foreign to me. At one point, I hear a
noise and pull my knife, thinking I may have to defend myself, but I’ve only startled
a rabbit. “Good to see you,” I whisper. If there’s one rabbit, there could be
hundreds just waiting to be snared.
The ground slopes down. I don’t particularly like this. Valleys make me feel
trapped. I want to be high, like in the hills around District 12, where I can see my
enemies approaching. But I have no choice but to keep going.
Funny though, I don’t feel too bad. The days of gorging myself have paid off.
I’ve got staying power even though I’m short on sleep. Being in the woods is
rejuvenating. I’m glad for the solitude, even though it’s an illusion, because I’m
probably on-screen right now. Not consistently but off and on. There are so many
deaths to show the first day that a tribute trekking through the woods isn’t much
to look at. But they’ll show me enough to let people know I’m alive, uninjured and
on the move. One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, when the initial
casualties come in. But that can’t compare to what happens as the field shrinks to
a handful of players.
It’s late afternoon when I begin to hear the cannons. Each shot represents a
dead tribute. The fighting must have finally stopped at the Cornucopia. They never
collect the bloodbath bodies until the killers have dispersed. On the opening day,
they don’t even fire the cannons until the initial fighting’s over because it’s too
hard to keep track of the fatalities. I allow myself to pause, panting, as I count the
shots. One . . . two . . . three . . . on and on until they reach eleven. Eleven dead in
all. Thirteen left to play. My fingernails scrape at the dried blood the boy from
District 9 coughed into my face. He’s gone, certainly. I wonder about Peeta. Has
he lasted through the day? I’ll know in a few hours. When they project the dead’s
images into the sky for the rest of us to see.
All of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed by the thought that Peeta may be already
lost, bled white, collected, and in the process of being transported back to the
Capitol to be cleaned up, redressed, and shipped in a simple wooden box back to
District 12. No longer here. Heading home. I try hard to remember if I saw him
once the action started. But the last image I can conjure up is Peeta shaking his
head as the gong rang out.
Maybe it’s better, if he’s gone already. He had no confidence he could win. And
I will not end up with the unpleasant task of killing him. Maybe it’s better if he’s
out of this for good.
I slump down next to my pack, exhausted. I need to go through it anyway
before night falls. See what I have to work with. As I unhook the straps, I can feel
it’s sturdily made although a rather unfortunate color. This orange will practically
glow in the dark. I make a mental note to camouflage it first thing tomorrow.
I flip open the flap. What I want most, right at this moment, is water.
Haymitch’s directive to immediately find water was not arbitrary. I won’t last long
without it. For a few days, I’ll be able to function with unpleasant symptoms of
dehydration, but after that I'll deteriorate into helplessness and be dead in a week,
tops. I carefully lay out the provisions. One thin black sleeping bag that reflects
body heal. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box
of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. And a half-gallon
plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that's bone dry.
No water. How hard would it have been for them to fill up the bottle? I become
aware of the dryness in my throat and mouth, the cracks in my lips. I've been
moving all day long. It's been hot and I've sweat a lot. I do this at home, but there
are always streams to drink from, or snow to melt if it should come to it.
As I refill my pack I have an awful thought. The lake. The one I saw while I was
waiting for the gong to sound. What if that's the only water source in the arena?
waiting for the gong to sound. What if that's the only water source in the arena?
That way they'll guarantee drawing us in to fight. The lake is a full day's journey
from where I sit now, a much harder journey with nothing to drink. And then, even
if I reach it, it's sure to be heavily guarded by some of the Career Tributes. I'm
about to panic when I remember the rabbit I startled earlier today. It has to drink,
too. I just have to find out where.
Twilight is closing in and I am ill at ease. The trees are too thin to offer much
concealment. The layer of pine needles that muffles my footsteps also makes
tracking animals harder when I need their trails to find water. And I'm still heading
downhill, deeper and deeper into a valley that seems endless.
I’m hungry, too, but I don’t dare break into my precious store of crackers and beef
yet. Instead, I take my knife and go to work on a pine tree, cutting away the outer
bark and scraping off a large handful of the softer inner bark. I slowly chew the
stuff as I walk along. After a week of the finest food in the world, it’s a little hard to
choke down. But I’ve eaten plenty of pine in my life. I’ll adjust quickly.
In another hour, it’s clear I’ve got to find a place to camp. Night creatures are
coming out. I can hear the occasional hoot or howl, my first clue that I’ll be
competing with natural predators for the rabbits. As to whether I’ll be viewed as a
source of food, it’s too soon to tell. There could be any number of animals stalking
me at this moment.
But right now, I decide to make my fellow tributes a priority. I’m sure many will
continue hunting through the night. Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will
have food, an abundance of water from the lake, torches or flashlights, and
weapons they’re itching to use. I can only hope I’ve traveled far and fast enough to
be out of range.
Before settling down, I take my wire and set two twitch-up snares in the brush.
I know it’s risky to be setting traps, but food will go so fast out here. And I can’t set
snares on the run. Still, I walk another five minutes before making camp.
I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set in a clump of other
willows, offering concealment in those long, flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to
the stronger branches close to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my bed. It takes
some doing, but I arrange the sleeping bag in a relatively comfortable manner. I
place my backpack in the foot of the bag, then slide in after it. As a precaution, I
remove my belt, loop it all the way around the branch and my sleeping bag, and
refasten it at my waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won’t go crashing to the
ground. I’m small enough to tuck the top of the bag over my head, but I put on my
hood as well. As night falls, the air is cooling quickly. Despite the risk I took in
getting the backpack, I know now it was the right choice. This sleeping bag,
radiating back and preserving my body heat, will be invaluable. I’m sure there are
several other tributes whose biggest concern right now is how to stay warm
whereas I may actually be able to get a few hours of sleep. If only I wasn’t so
thirsty . . .
Night has just come when I hear the anthem that proceeds the death recap.
Through the branches I can see the seal of the Capitol, which appears to be
floating in the sky. I’m actually viewing another screen, an enormous one that’s
floating in the sky. I’m actually viewing another screen, an enormous one that’s
transported by of one of their disappearing hovercraft. The anthem fades out and
the sky goes dark for a moment. At home, we would be watching full coverage of
each and every killing, but that’s thought to give an unfair advantage to the living
tributes. For instance, if I got my hands on the bow and shot someone, my secret
would be revealed to all. No, here in the arena, all we see are the same
photographs they showed when they televised our training scores. Simple head
shots. But now instead of scores they post only district numbers. I take a deep
breath as the face of the eleven dead tributes begin and tick them off one by one
on my fingers.
The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means that the Career
Tributes from 1 and 2 have all survived. No surprise there. Then the boy from 4. I
didn’t expect that one, usually all the Careers make it through the first day. The
boy from District 5 . . . I guess the fox-faced girl made it. Both tributes from 6 and
7. The boy from 8. Both from 9. Yes, there’s the boy who I fought for the backpack.
I’ve run through my fingers, only one more dead tribute to go. Is it Peeta? No,
there’s the girl from District 10. That’s it. The Capitol seal is back with a final
musical flourish. Then darkness and the sounds of the forest resume.
I’m relieved Peeta’s alive. I tell myself again that if I get killed, his winning will
benefit my mother and Prim the most. This is what I tell myself to explain the
conflicting emotions that arise when I think of Peeta. The gratitude that he gave
me an edge by professing his love for me in the interview. The anger at his
superiority on the roof. The dread that we may come face-to-face at any moment
in this arena.
Eleven dead, but none from District 12. I try to work out who is left. Five Career
Tributes. Foxface. Thresh and Rue. Rue . . . so she made it through the first day
after all. I can’t help feeling glad. That makes ten of us. The other three I’ll figure
out tomorrow. Now when it is dark, and I have traveled far, and I am nestled high
in this tree, now I must try and rest.
I haven’t really slept in two days, and then there’s been the long day’s journey
into the arena. Slowly, I allow my muscles to relax. My eyes to close. The last thing
I think is it’s lucky I don’t snore. . . .
Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me. How long have I been
asleep? Four hours? Five? The tip of my nose is icy cold. Snap! Snap! What’s going
on? This is not the sound of a branch under someone’s foot, but the sharp crack of
one coming from a tree. Snap! Snap! I judge it to be several hundred yards to my
right. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. For a few minutes, there’s
nothing but blackness and some scuffling. Then I see a spark and a small fire
begins to bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can’t make out more
than that.
I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I know at the fire starter.
What are they thinking? A fire I’ll just at nightfall would have been one thing.
Those who battled at the Cornucopia, with their superior strength and surplus of
supplies, they couldn’t possibly have been near enough to spot the flames then.
But now, when they’ve probably been combing the woods for hours looking for
victims. You might as well be waving a flag and shouting, “Come and get me!”
And here I am a stone’s throw from the biggest idiot in
the Games. Strapped in a tree. Not daring to flee since my
general location has just been broadcast to any killer who
cares. I mean, I know it’s cold out here and not everybody
has a sleeping bag. But then you grit your teeth and stick it
out until dawn!
I lay smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours really thinking that if I
can get out of this tree, I won’t have the least problem taking out my new
neighbor. My instinct has been to flee, not fight. But obviously this person’s a
hazard. Stupid people are dangerous. And this one probably doesn’t have much in
the way of weapons while I’ve got this excellent knife.
The sky is still dark, but I can feel the first signs of dawn approaching. I’m
beginning to think we — meaning the person whose death I’m now devising and
me — we might actually have gone unnoticed. Then I hear it. Several pairs of feet
breaking into a run. The fire starter must have dozed off. They’re on her before
she can escape. I know it’s a girl now, I can tell by the pleading, the agonized
scream that follows. Then there’s laughter and congratulations from several
voices. Someone cries out, “Twelve down and eleven to go!” which gets a round of
appreciative hoots.
So they’re fighting in a pack. I’m not really surprised. Often alliances are
formed in the early stages of the Games. The strong band together to hunt down
the weak then, when the tension becomes too great, begin to turn on one another.
I don’t have to wonder too hard who has made this alliance. It’ll be the remaining
Career Tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4. Two boys and three girls. The ones who
lunched together.
For a moment, I hear them checking the girl for supplies. I can tell by their
comments they’ve found nothing good. I wonder if the victim is Rue but quickly
dismiss the thought. She’s much too bright to be building a fire like that.
“Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking.” I’m almost
certain that’s the brutish boy from District 2. There are murmurs of assent and
then, to my horror, I hear the pack heading toward me. They do not know I’m
here. How could they? And I’m well concealed in the clump of trees. At least while
the sun stays down. Then my black sleeping bag will turn from camouflage to
trouble. If they just keep moving, they will pass me and be gone in a minute.
But the Careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from my tree. They have
flashlights, torches. I can see an arm here, a boot there, through the breaks in the
branches. I turn to stone, not even daring to breathe. Have they spotted me? No,
not yet. I can tell from their words their minds are elsewhere.
“Shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?”
“I’d say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately.”
“Unless she isn’t dead.”
“She’s dead. I stuck her myself.”
“Then where’s the cannon?”
“Someone should go back. Make sure the job’s done.”
“Yeah, we don’t want to have to track her down twice.”
“I said she’s dead!”
An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others. “We’re wasting
time! I’ll go finish her and let’s move on!”
I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta.
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