The Hunger Games Part 2: The Games
Chapter 18
deeply into the center of his neck. He falls to his knees and halves the brief
remainder of his life by yanking out the arrow and drowning in his own blood. I’m
reloaded, shifting my aim from side to side, while I shout at Rue, “Are there more?
Are there more?”
She has to say no several times before I hear it. Rue has rolled to her side, her
body curved in and around the spear. I shove the boy away from her and pull out
my knife, freeing her from the net. One look at the wound and I know it’s far
beyond my capacity to heal, beyond anyone’s probably. The spearhead is buried
up to the shaft in her stomach. I crouch before her, staring helplessly at the
embedded weapon. There’s no point in comforting words, in telling her she’ll be all
right. She’s no fool. Her hand reaches out and I clutch it like a lifeline. As if it’s me
who’s dying instead of Rue.
“You blew up the food?” she whispers.
“Every last bit,” I say.
“You have to win,” she says.
“I’m going to. Going to win for both of us now,” I promise. I hear a cannon and
look up. It must be for the boy from District 1.
“Don’t go.” Rue tightens her grip on my hand.
“Course not. Staying right here,” I say. I move in closer to her, pulling her head
onto my lap. I gently brush the dark, thick hair back behind her ear.
“Sing,” she says, but I barely catch the word.
Sing? I think. Sing what? I do know a few songs. Believe it or not, there was
once music in my house, too. Music I helped make. My father pulled me in with
that remarkable voice — but I haven’t sung much since he died. Except when Prim
is very sick. Then I sing her the same songs she liked as a baby.
Sing. My throat is tight with tears, hoarse from smoke and fatigue. But if this is
Prim’s, I mean, Rue’s last request, I have to at least try. The song that comes to
me is a simple lullaby, one we sing fretful, hungry babies to sleep with, It’s old,
very old I think. Made up long ago in our hills. What my music teacher calls a
mountain air. But the words are easy and soothing, promising tomorrow will be
more hopeful than this awful piece of time we call today.
I give a small cough, swallow hard, and begin:
Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise.
Here it’s safe, here it’s warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
Here is the place where I love you.
Rue’s eyes have fluttered shut. Her chest moves but only slightly. My throat
releases the tears and they slide down my cheeks. But I have to finish the song for
her.
Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay
And when again it’s morning, they’ll wash away.
Here it’s safe, here it’s warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
The final lines are barely audible.
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
Everything’s still and quiet. Then, almost eerily, the mockingjays take up my
song.
For a moment, I sit there, watching my tears drip down on her face. Rue’s
cannon fires. I lean forward and press my lips against her temple. Slowly, as if not
to wake her, I lay her head back on the ground and release her hand.
They’ll want me to clear out now. So they can collect the bodies. And there’s
nothing to stay for. I roll the boy from District 1 onto his face and take his pack,
retrieve the arrow that ended his life. I cut Rue’s pack from her back as well,
knowing she’d want me to have it but leave the spear in her stomach. Weapons in
bodies will be transported to the hovercraft. I’ve no use for a spear, so the sooner
it’s gone from the arena the better.
I can’t stop looking at Rue, smaller than ever, a baby animal curled up in a
nest of netting. I can’t bring myself to leave her like this. Past harm, but seeming
utterly defenseless. To hate the boy from District 1, who also appears so
vulnerable in death, seems inadequate. It’s the Capitol I hate, for doing this to all
of us.
Gale’s voice is in my head. His ravings against the Capitol no longer pointless,
no longer to be ignored. Rue’s death has forced me to confront my own fury
against the cruelty, the injustice they inflict upon us. But here, even more strongly
than at home, I feel my impotence. There’s no way to take revenge on the Capitol.
Is there?
Then I remember Peeta’s words on the roof. “Only I keep wishing I could think
of a way to . . . to show the Capital they don’t own me. That I’m more than just a
piece in their Games.” And for the first time, I understand what he means.
I want to do something, right here, right now, to shame them, to make them
accountable, to show the Capitol that whatever they do or force us to do there is a
part of every tribute they can’t own. That Rue was more than a piece in their
Games. And so am I.
A few steps into the woods grows a bank of wildflowers. Perhaps they are really
weeds of some sort, but they have blossoms in beautiful shades of violet and
yellow and white. I gather up an armful and come back to Rue’s side. Slowly, one
stem at a time, I decorate her body in the flowers. Covering the ugly wound.
Wreathing her face. Weaving her hair with bright colors.
They’ll have to show it. Or, even if they choose to turn the cameras elsewhere
at this moment, they’ll have to bring them back when they collect the bodies and
everyone will see her then and know I did it. I step back and take a last look at
Rue. She could really be asleep in that meadow after all.
“Bye, Rue,” I whisper. I press the three middle fingers of my left hand against
my lips and hold them out in her direction. Then I walk away without looking back.
The birds fall silent. Somewhere, a mockingjay gives the warning whistle that
precedes the hovercraft. I don’t know how it knows. It must hear things that
humans can’t. I pause, my eyes focused on what’s ahead, not what’s happening
behind me. It doesn’t take long, then the general birdsong begins again and I know
she’s gone.
Another mockingjay, a young one by the look of it, lands on a branch before
me and bursts out Rue’s melody.
My song, the hovercraft, were too unfamiliar for this novice to pick up, but it
has mastered her handful of notes. The ones that mean she’s safe.
“Good and safe,” I say as I pass under its branch. “We don’t have to worry
about her now.” Good and safe.
I’ve no idea where to go. The brief sense of home I had that one night with Rue
has vanished. My feet wander this way and that until sunset. I’m not afraid, not
even watchful. Which makes me an easy target. Except I’d kill anyone I met on
sight. Without emotion or the slightest tremor in my hands. My hatred of the
Capitol has not lessened my hatred of my competitors in the least. Especially the
Careers. They, at least, can be made to pay for Rue’s death.
No one materializes though. There aren’t many of us left and it’s a big arena.
Soon they’ll be pulling out some other device to force us together. But there’s
been enough gore today. Perhaps we’ll even get to sleep.
I’m about to haul my packs into a tree to make camp when a silver parachute
floats down and lands in front of me. A gift from a sponsor. But why now? I’ve been
in fairly good shape with supplies. Maybe Haymitch’s noticed my despondency and
is trying to cheer me up a bit. Or could it be something to help my ear?
I open the parachute and find a small loaf of bread It’s not the fine white
Capitol stuff. It’s made of dark ration grain and shaped in a crescent. Sprinkled
with seeds. I flash back to Peeta’s lesson on the various district breads in the
Training Center. This bread came from District 11. I cautiously lift the still warm
loaf. What must it have cost the people of District 11 who can’t even feed
themselves? How many would’ve had to do without to scrape up a coin to put in
the collection for this one loaf? It had been meant for Rue, surely. But instead of
pulling the gift when she died, they’d authorized Haymitch to give it to me. As a
thank-you? Or because, like me, they don’t like to let debts go unpaid? For
whatever reason, this is a first. A district gift to a tribute who’s not your own.
I lift my face and step into the last falling rays of sunlight. “My thanks to the
people of District Eleven,” I say. I want them to know I know where it came from.
That the full value of their gift has been recognized.
I climb dangerously high into a tree, not for safety but to get as far away from
today as I can. My sleeping bag is rolled neatly in Rue’s pack. Tomorrow I’ll sort
through the supplies. Tomorrow I’ll make a new plan. But tonight, all I can do is
strap myself in and take tiny bites of the bread. It’s good. It tastes of home.
Soon the seal’s in the sky, the anthem plays in my right ear. I see the boy from
District 1, Rue. That’s all for tonight. Six of us left, I think. Only six. With the bread
still locked in my hands, I fall asleep at once.
Sometimes when things are particularly bad, my brain will give me a happy
dream. A visit with my father in the woods. An hour of sunlight and cake with Prim.
Tonight it sends me Rue, still decked in her flowers, perched in a high sea of trees,
trying to teach me to talk to the mockingjays. I see no sign of her wounds, no
blood, just a bright, laughing girl. She sings songs I’ve never heard in a clear,
melodic voice. On and on. Through the night. There’s a drowsy in-between period
when I can hear the last few strains of her music although she’s lost in the leaves.
When I fully awaken, I’m momentarily comforted. I try to hold on to the peaceful
feeling of the dream, but it quickly slips away, leaving me sadder and lonelier than
ever.
Heaviness infuses my whole body, as if there’s liquid lead in my veins. I’ve lost
the will to do the simplest tasks, to do anything but lie here, staring unblinkingly
through the canopy of leaves. For several hours, I remain motionless. As usual, it’s
the thought of Prim’s anxious face as she watches me on the screens back home
that breaks me from my lethargy.
I give myself a series of simple commands to follow, like “Now you have to sit
up, Katniss. Now you have to drink water, Katniss.” I act on the orders with slow,
robotic motions. “Now you have to sort the packs, Katniss.”
Rue’s pack holds my sleeping bag, her nearly empty water skin, a handful of
nuts and roots, a bit of rabbit, her extra socks, and her slingshot. The boy from
District 1 has several knives, two spare spearheads, a flashlight, a small leather
pouch, a first-aid kit, a full bottle of water, and a pack of dried fruit. A pack of
dried fruit! Out of all he might have chosen from. To me, this is a sign of extreme
arrogance. Why bother to carry food when you have such a bounty back at camp?
When you will kill your enemies so quickly you’ll be home before you’re hungry? I
can only hope the other Careers traveled so lightly when it came to food and now
find themselves with nothing.
Speaking of which, my own supply is running low. I finish off the loaf from
District 11 and the last of the rabbit. How quickly the food disappears. All I have
left are Rue’s roots and nuts, the boy’s dried fruit, and one strip of beef. Now you
have to hunt, Katniss, I tell myself.
I obediently consolidate the supplies I want into my pack. After I climb down
the tree, I conceal the boy’s knives and spearheads in a pile of rocks so that no
one else can use them. I’ve lost my bearings what with all the wandering around I
did yesterday evening, but I try and head back in the general direction of the
stream. I know I’m on course when I come across Rue’s third, unlit fire. Shortly
thereafter, I discover a flock of grooslings perched in the trees and take out three
before they know what hit them. I return to Rue’s signal fire and start it up, not
caring about the excessive smoke. Where are you, Cato? I think as I roast the
birds and Rue’s roots. I’m waiting right here.
Who knows where the Careers are now? Either too far to reach me or too sure
this is a trick or ... is it possible? Too scared of me? They know I have the bow and
arrows, of course, Cato saw me take them from Glimmer’s body, but have they put
two and two together yet? Figured out I blew up the supplies and killed their fellow
Career? Possibly they think Thresh did this. Wouldn’t he be more likely to revenge
Rue’s death than I would? Being from the same district? Not that he ever took any
interest in her.
And what about Foxface? Did she hang around to watch me blow up the
supplies? No. When I caught her laughing in the ashes the next morning, it was as
if someone had given her a lovely surprise.
I doubt they think Peeta has lit this signal fire. Cato’s sure he’s as good as
dead. I find myself wishing I could tell Peeta about the flowers I put on Rue. That I
now understand what he was trying to say on the roof. Perhaps if he wins the
Games, he’ll see me on victor’s night, when they replay the highlights of the
Games on a screen over the stage where we did our interviews. The winner sits in
a place of honor on the platform, surrounded by their support crew.
But I told Rue I’d be there. For both of us. And somehow that seems even more
important than the vow I gave Prim.
I really think I stand a chance of doing it now. Winning. It’s not just having the
arrows or outsmarting the Careers a few times, although those things help.
Something happened when I was holding Rue’s hand, watching the life drain out of
her. Now I am determined to revenge her, to make her loss unforgettable, and I
can only do that by winning and thereby making myself unforgettable.
I overcook the birds hoping someone will show up to shoot, but no one does.
Maybe the other tributes are out there beating one another senseless. Which
would be fine, Ever since the bloodbath, I’ve been featured on screens most than I
care.
Eventually, I wrap up my food and go back to the stream to replenish my water
and gather some. But the heaviness from the morning drapes back over me and
even though it’s only early evening, I climb a tree and settle in for the night. My
brain begins to replay the events from yesterday. I keep seeing Rue speared, my
arrow piercing the boy’s neck. I don’t know why I should even care about the boy.
Then I realize . . . he was my first kill.
Along with other statistics they report to help people place their bets, every
tribute has a list of kills. I guess technically I’d get credited for Glimmer and the
girl from District 4, too, for dumping that nest on them. But the boy from District 1
was the first person I knew would die because of my actions. Numerous animals
have lost their lives at my hands, but only one human. I hear Gale saying, “How
different can it be, really?”
Amazingly similar in the execution. A bow pulled, an arrow shot. Entirely
different in the aftermath. I killed a boy whose name I don’t even know.
Somewhere his family is weeping for him. His friends call for my blood. Maybe he
had a girlfriend who really believed he would come back . . .
But then I think of Rue’s still body and I’m able to banish the boy from my
mind. At least, for now.
It’s been an uneventful day according to the sky. No deaths. I wonder how long
we’ll get until the next catastrophe drives us back together. If it’s going to be
tonight, I want to get some sleep first. I cover my good ear to block out the strains
of the anthem, but then I hear the trumpets and sit straight up in anticipation.
For the most part, the only communication the tributes get from outside the
arena is the nightly death toll. But occasionally, there will be trumpets followed by
an announcement. Usually, this will be a call to a feast. When food is scarce, the
Gamemakers will invite the players to a banquet, somewhere known to all like the
Cornucopia, as an inducement to gather and fight. Sometimes there is a feast and
sometimes there’s nothing but a loaf of stale bread for the tributes to compete for.
I wouldn’t go in for the food, but this could be an ideal time to take out a few
competitors.
Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms down from overhead, congratulating the
six of us who remain. But he is not inviting us to a feast. He’s saying something
very confusing. There’s been a rule change in the Games. A rule change! That in
itself is mind bending since we don’t really have any rules to speak of except don’t
step off your circle for sixty seconds and the unspoken rule about not eating one
another. Under the new rule, both tributes from the same district will be declared
winners if they are the last two alive. Claudius pauses, as if he knows we’re not
getting it, and repeats the change again.
The news sinks in. Two tributes can win this year. If they’re from the same
district. Both can live. Both of us can live.
Before I can stop myself, I call out Peeta’s name.
Chapter 18
deeply into the center of his neck. He falls to his knees and halves the brief
remainder of his life by yanking out the arrow and drowning in his own blood. I’m
reloaded, shifting my aim from side to side, while I shout at Rue, “Are there more?
Are there more?”
She has to say no several times before I hear it. Rue has rolled to her side, her
body curved in and around the spear. I shove the boy away from her and pull out
my knife, freeing her from the net. One look at the wound and I know it’s far
beyond my capacity to heal, beyond anyone’s probably. The spearhead is buried
up to the shaft in her stomach. I crouch before her, staring helplessly at the
embedded weapon. There’s no point in comforting words, in telling her she’ll be all
right. She’s no fool. Her hand reaches out and I clutch it like a lifeline. As if it’s me
who’s dying instead of Rue.
“You blew up the food?” she whispers.
“Every last bit,” I say.
“You have to win,” she says.
“I’m going to. Going to win for both of us now,” I promise. I hear a cannon and
look up. It must be for the boy from District 1.
“Don’t go.” Rue tightens her grip on my hand.
“Course not. Staying right here,” I say. I move in closer to her, pulling her head
onto my lap. I gently brush the dark, thick hair back behind her ear.
“Sing,” she says, but I barely catch the word.
Sing? I think. Sing what? I do know a few songs. Believe it or not, there was
once music in my house, too. Music I helped make. My father pulled me in with
that remarkable voice — but I haven’t sung much since he died. Except when Prim
is very sick. Then I sing her the same songs she liked as a baby.
Sing. My throat is tight with tears, hoarse from smoke and fatigue. But if this is
Prim’s, I mean, Rue’s last request, I have to at least try. The song that comes to
me is a simple lullaby, one we sing fretful, hungry babies to sleep with, It’s old,
very old I think. Made up long ago in our hills. What my music teacher calls a
mountain air. But the words are easy and soothing, promising tomorrow will be
more hopeful than this awful piece of time we call today.
I give a small cough, swallow hard, and begin:
Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise.
Here it’s safe, here it’s warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
Here is the place where I love you.
Rue’s eyes have fluttered shut. Her chest moves but only slightly. My throat
releases the tears and they slide down my cheeks. But I have to finish the song for
her.
Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay
And when again it’s morning, they’ll wash away.
Here it’s safe, here it’s warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
The final lines are barely audible.
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
Everything’s still and quiet. Then, almost eerily, the mockingjays take up my
song.
For a moment, I sit there, watching my tears drip down on her face. Rue’s
cannon fires. I lean forward and press my lips against her temple. Slowly, as if not
to wake her, I lay her head back on the ground and release her hand.
They’ll want me to clear out now. So they can collect the bodies. And there’s
nothing to stay for. I roll the boy from District 1 onto his face and take his pack,
retrieve the arrow that ended his life. I cut Rue’s pack from her back as well,
knowing she’d want me to have it but leave the spear in her stomach. Weapons in
bodies will be transported to the hovercraft. I’ve no use for a spear, so the sooner
it’s gone from the arena the better.
I can’t stop looking at Rue, smaller than ever, a baby animal curled up in a
nest of netting. I can’t bring myself to leave her like this. Past harm, but seeming
utterly defenseless. To hate the boy from District 1, who also appears so
vulnerable in death, seems inadequate. It’s the Capitol I hate, for doing this to all
of us.
Gale’s voice is in my head. His ravings against the Capitol no longer pointless,
no longer to be ignored. Rue’s death has forced me to confront my own fury
against the cruelty, the injustice they inflict upon us. But here, even more strongly
than at home, I feel my impotence. There’s no way to take revenge on the Capitol.
Is there?
Then I remember Peeta’s words on the roof. “Only I keep wishing I could think
of a way to . . . to show the Capital they don’t own me. That I’m more than just a
piece in their Games.” And for the first time, I understand what he means.
I want to do something, right here, right now, to shame them, to make them
accountable, to show the Capitol that whatever they do or force us to do there is a
part of every tribute they can’t own. That Rue was more than a piece in their
Games. And so am I.
A few steps into the woods grows a bank of wildflowers. Perhaps they are really
weeds of some sort, but they have blossoms in beautiful shades of violet and
yellow and white. I gather up an armful and come back to Rue’s side. Slowly, one
stem at a time, I decorate her body in the flowers. Covering the ugly wound.
Wreathing her face. Weaving her hair with bright colors.
They’ll have to show it. Or, even if they choose to turn the cameras elsewhere
at this moment, they’ll have to bring them back when they collect the bodies and
everyone will see her then and know I did it. I step back and take a last look at
Rue. She could really be asleep in that meadow after all.
“Bye, Rue,” I whisper. I press the three middle fingers of my left hand against
my lips and hold them out in her direction. Then I walk away without looking back.
The birds fall silent. Somewhere, a mockingjay gives the warning whistle that
precedes the hovercraft. I don’t know how it knows. It must hear things that
humans can’t. I pause, my eyes focused on what’s ahead, not what’s happening
behind me. It doesn’t take long, then the general birdsong begins again and I know
she’s gone.
Another mockingjay, a young one by the look of it, lands on a branch before
me and bursts out Rue’s melody.
My song, the hovercraft, were too unfamiliar for this novice to pick up, but it
has mastered her handful of notes. The ones that mean she’s safe.
“Good and safe,” I say as I pass under its branch. “We don’t have to worry
about her now.” Good and safe.
I’ve no idea where to go. The brief sense of home I had that one night with Rue
has vanished. My feet wander this way and that until sunset. I’m not afraid, not
even watchful. Which makes me an easy target. Except I’d kill anyone I met on
sight. Without emotion or the slightest tremor in my hands. My hatred of the
Capitol has not lessened my hatred of my competitors in the least. Especially the
Careers. They, at least, can be made to pay for Rue’s death.
No one materializes though. There aren’t many of us left and it’s a big arena.
Soon they’ll be pulling out some other device to force us together. But there’s
been enough gore today. Perhaps we’ll even get to sleep.
I’m about to haul my packs into a tree to make camp when a silver parachute
floats down and lands in front of me. A gift from a sponsor. But why now? I’ve been
in fairly good shape with supplies. Maybe Haymitch’s noticed my despondency and
is trying to cheer me up a bit. Or could it be something to help my ear?
I open the parachute and find a small loaf of bread It’s not the fine white
Capitol stuff. It’s made of dark ration grain and shaped in a crescent. Sprinkled
with seeds. I flash back to Peeta’s lesson on the various district breads in the
Training Center. This bread came from District 11. I cautiously lift the still warm
loaf. What must it have cost the people of District 11 who can’t even feed
themselves? How many would’ve had to do without to scrape up a coin to put in
the collection for this one loaf? It had been meant for Rue, surely. But instead of
pulling the gift when she died, they’d authorized Haymitch to give it to me. As a
thank-you? Or because, like me, they don’t like to let debts go unpaid? For
whatever reason, this is a first. A district gift to a tribute who’s not your own.
I lift my face and step into the last falling rays of sunlight. “My thanks to the
people of District Eleven,” I say. I want them to know I know where it came from.
That the full value of their gift has been recognized.
I climb dangerously high into a tree, not for safety but to get as far away from
today as I can. My sleeping bag is rolled neatly in Rue’s pack. Tomorrow I’ll sort
through the supplies. Tomorrow I’ll make a new plan. But tonight, all I can do is
strap myself in and take tiny bites of the bread. It’s good. It tastes of home.
Soon the seal’s in the sky, the anthem plays in my right ear. I see the boy from
District 1, Rue. That’s all for tonight. Six of us left, I think. Only six. With the bread
still locked in my hands, I fall asleep at once.
Sometimes when things are particularly bad, my brain will give me a happy
dream. A visit with my father in the woods. An hour of sunlight and cake with Prim.
Tonight it sends me Rue, still decked in her flowers, perched in a high sea of trees,
trying to teach me to talk to the mockingjays. I see no sign of her wounds, no
blood, just a bright, laughing girl. She sings songs I’ve never heard in a clear,
melodic voice. On and on. Through the night. There’s a drowsy in-between period
when I can hear the last few strains of her music although she’s lost in the leaves.
When I fully awaken, I’m momentarily comforted. I try to hold on to the peaceful
feeling of the dream, but it quickly slips away, leaving me sadder and lonelier than
ever.
Heaviness infuses my whole body, as if there’s liquid lead in my veins. I’ve lost
the will to do the simplest tasks, to do anything but lie here, staring unblinkingly
through the canopy of leaves. For several hours, I remain motionless. As usual, it’s
the thought of Prim’s anxious face as she watches me on the screens back home
that breaks me from my lethargy.
I give myself a series of simple commands to follow, like “Now you have to sit
up, Katniss. Now you have to drink water, Katniss.” I act on the orders with slow,
robotic motions. “Now you have to sort the packs, Katniss.”
Rue’s pack holds my sleeping bag, her nearly empty water skin, a handful of
nuts and roots, a bit of rabbit, her extra socks, and her slingshot. The boy from
District 1 has several knives, two spare spearheads, a flashlight, a small leather
pouch, a first-aid kit, a full bottle of water, and a pack of dried fruit. A pack of
dried fruit! Out of all he might have chosen from. To me, this is a sign of extreme
arrogance. Why bother to carry food when you have such a bounty back at camp?
When you will kill your enemies so quickly you’ll be home before you’re hungry? I
can only hope the other Careers traveled so lightly when it came to food and now
find themselves with nothing.
Speaking of which, my own supply is running low. I finish off the loaf from
District 11 and the last of the rabbit. How quickly the food disappears. All I have
left are Rue’s roots and nuts, the boy’s dried fruit, and one strip of beef. Now you
have to hunt, Katniss, I tell myself.
I obediently consolidate the supplies I want into my pack. After I climb down
the tree, I conceal the boy’s knives and spearheads in a pile of rocks so that no
one else can use them. I’ve lost my bearings what with all the wandering around I
did yesterday evening, but I try and head back in the general direction of the
stream. I know I’m on course when I come across Rue’s third, unlit fire. Shortly
thereafter, I discover a flock of grooslings perched in the trees and take out three
before they know what hit them. I return to Rue’s signal fire and start it up, not
caring about the excessive smoke. Where are you, Cato? I think as I roast the
birds and Rue’s roots. I’m waiting right here.
Who knows where the Careers are now? Either too far to reach me or too sure
this is a trick or ... is it possible? Too scared of me? They know I have the bow and
arrows, of course, Cato saw me take them from Glimmer’s body, but have they put
two and two together yet? Figured out I blew up the supplies and killed their fellow
Career? Possibly they think Thresh did this. Wouldn’t he be more likely to revenge
Rue’s death than I would? Being from the same district? Not that he ever took any
interest in her.
And what about Foxface? Did she hang around to watch me blow up the
supplies? No. When I caught her laughing in the ashes the next morning, it was as
if someone had given her a lovely surprise.
I doubt they think Peeta has lit this signal fire. Cato’s sure he’s as good as
dead. I find myself wishing I could tell Peeta about the flowers I put on Rue. That I
now understand what he was trying to say on the roof. Perhaps if he wins the
Games, he’ll see me on victor’s night, when they replay the highlights of the
Games on a screen over the stage where we did our interviews. The winner sits in
a place of honor on the platform, surrounded by their support crew.
But I told Rue I’d be there. For both of us. And somehow that seems even more
important than the vow I gave Prim.
I really think I stand a chance of doing it now. Winning. It’s not just having the
arrows or outsmarting the Careers a few times, although those things help.
Something happened when I was holding Rue’s hand, watching the life drain out of
her. Now I am determined to revenge her, to make her loss unforgettable, and I
can only do that by winning and thereby making myself unforgettable.
I overcook the birds hoping someone will show up to shoot, but no one does.
Maybe the other tributes are out there beating one another senseless. Which
would be fine, Ever since the bloodbath, I’ve been featured on screens most than I
care.
Eventually, I wrap up my food and go back to the stream to replenish my water
and gather some. But the heaviness from the morning drapes back over me and
even though it’s only early evening, I climb a tree and settle in for the night. My
brain begins to replay the events from yesterday. I keep seeing Rue speared, my
arrow piercing the boy’s neck. I don’t know why I should even care about the boy.
Then I realize . . . he was my first kill.
Along with other statistics they report to help people place their bets, every
tribute has a list of kills. I guess technically I’d get credited for Glimmer and the
girl from District 4, too, for dumping that nest on them. But the boy from District 1
was the first person I knew would die because of my actions. Numerous animals
have lost their lives at my hands, but only one human. I hear Gale saying, “How
different can it be, really?”
Amazingly similar in the execution. A bow pulled, an arrow shot. Entirely
different in the aftermath. I killed a boy whose name I don’t even know.
Somewhere his family is weeping for him. His friends call for my blood. Maybe he
had a girlfriend who really believed he would come back . . .
But then I think of Rue’s still body and I’m able to banish the boy from my
mind. At least, for now.
It’s been an uneventful day according to the sky. No deaths. I wonder how long
we’ll get until the next catastrophe drives us back together. If it’s going to be
tonight, I want to get some sleep first. I cover my good ear to block out the strains
of the anthem, but then I hear the trumpets and sit straight up in anticipation.
For the most part, the only communication the tributes get from outside the
arena is the nightly death toll. But occasionally, there will be trumpets followed by
an announcement. Usually, this will be a call to a feast. When food is scarce, the
Gamemakers will invite the players to a banquet, somewhere known to all like the
Cornucopia, as an inducement to gather and fight. Sometimes there is a feast and
sometimes there’s nothing but a loaf of stale bread for the tributes to compete for.
I wouldn’t go in for the food, but this could be an ideal time to take out a few
competitors.
Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms down from overhead, congratulating the
six of us who remain. But he is not inviting us to a feast. He’s saying something
very confusing. There’s been a rule change in the Games. A rule change! That in
itself is mind bending since we don’t really have any rules to speak of except don’t
step off your circle for sixty seconds and the unspoken rule about not eating one
another. Under the new rule, both tributes from the same district will be declared
winners if they are the last two alive. Claudius pauses, as if he knows we’re not
getting it, and repeats the change again.
The news sinks in. Two tributes can win this year. If they’re from the same
district. Both can live. Both of us can live.
Before I can stop myself, I call out Peeta’s name.
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