The night seems both endless and way too short. I’m awake but exhausted when Mags comes to rouse us. We wash up and put on our old training outfits, since they won’t dress us until we’re in the holding pens at the arena. I know Maysilee’s unhappy with me for abandoning the Newcomers. As a peace offering, I slip Beetee’s birthday gift, the turn-a-
potato-into-a-light packet, into her hand as we head to the kitchen. Although she doesn’t acknowledge me, it disappears into her pocket.
There’s a big hot breakfast, but it’s all Wyatt and I can do to swallow a few bites, the stuff sticks in our throats so, and Maysilee only wants coffee. Lou Lou, on the other hand, eats a stack of pancakes as high as her head and fistfuls of bacon, confirming that she’s too far gone to know what
the next few days hold for her. That’s a blessing, I guess. She looks so defenseless without her snake.
Wiress gives us last-minute pointers and then seems to shut down.
Mags hugs each of us and says that whatever happens, we have been remarkable. She knows at least three of us won’t be back. What else can she say?
All pretense is over. We are being propelled forward, faster and faster, to the inevitable moment when the gong sounds. All the tribute
preparation — the costumes, the training, the interviews — was just a distraction from the real agenda. Today some of us will die.
Drusilla drops by the apartment to complete her last official escort duty, seeing we’re searched and loaded into the van. I don’t know where Maysilee stowed the packet, but she comes up clean. Once we’re chained
in, a woman in a white coat and carrying a set of syringes shoots something into each of our forearms. She doesn’t have to tell us it’s our tracker, an
electronic device that allows the Gamemakers to find us in the arena. “What happens if we win? Do they take it out?” asks Wyatt.
“We collect all of them from the tributes, dead or alive,” says the woman. “They’re reusable. Of course, this year we needed twenty-four extra.”
Thanks for reminding us.
Drusilla stands at the back of the van. “All right, you lot,” she says. “Try not to embarrass me.”
Maysilee rallies one last time. “As if you needed our help.” Drusilla slams the door shut on us.
We’re taken to some sort of runway where a half dozen hovercraft await, then loaded into a windowless compartment and strapped into our seats across from District 11. They look as terrif ied as we do. Only Lou
Lou seems unbothered. She catches sight of the token that one of the girls, Chicory, wears — a flower woven of grass — and fixates on it. Then she begins to make little hand motions as she sings in a breathy voice:
Flower there beside my feet
Growing up between the corn Combine’s here so duck your head Duck your head
Duck your head
Combine’s here so duck your head To see another morn.
Chicory reacts with surprise. She addresses the rest of us, since Lou Lou’s mental state precludes answering. “How does she know that song? You sing it in Twelve?”
As something of an authority on songs in 12 by virtue of time spent with Lenore Dove, I shake my head.
“That’s a harvest song for kids,” Chicory continues. “That’s our
song.” She peers at Lou Lou’s face, exchanges a look with her 11 tributes, then sings:
Mockingjay up on the branch —
Lou Lou takes over the song at once.
Nesting in this apple tree Picking time so fly away Fly away
Fly away
Picking time so fly away Fly away with me.
“How do you explain that, then?” Chicory asks us.
“We don’t,” says Maysilee. “She’s not ours. Ours is dead and she’s the replacement they sent us. Like as not, she’s from Eleven. Our mentors think so anyway.” She never seems to care if the Capitol’s listening.
Tile, the largest of the 11 tributes, speaks in a tight voice. “You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”
“We didn’t know for sure until now,” says Wyatt. “We’ve just been trying to look out for her. Does it matter where they took her from, Eleven or Twelve? Aren’t we all on the same side?”
Lou Lou ignores us all as she tries to wriggle out of her safety straps. “Do you know who she might be?” I ask.
Chicory shakes her head. “We’re a big district. And who knows how long she’s been with them.” She leans toward Lou Lou as much as her
straps allow. “Little girl? What’s your real name? If one of us makes it back, we can tell your family.”
Lou Lou hesitates, attempts to speak, then grabs her ear and lets out a shriek. Wyatt catches her free hand and tries to soothe her.
“We think they put something in her ear to control her,” Maysilee tells
them.
“That’s why you wanted us to be careful what we say,” says Chicory,
putting it together. “They’re listening.” She sits back in her seat, her face sorrowful. “Maybe her people will recognize her.”
I don’t say so, but I’ve got a feeling her people are long dead, and if they’re alive, how tragic for them to see her only to lose her again. There’s no good ending to Lou Lou’s story.
We lift off, which would be amazing under other circumstances but here only adds to my queasiness. Everybody shuts up for a while, which
gives me a chance to mentally prepare. I should be planning my strategy in the arena, but I just keep thinking about Lenore Dove, and how much I love her, and wondering if she’s home by now and how she’s doing. And Ma.
And Sid. Burdock and Blair. Hattie. Before I know it, we’re descending.
When we arrive at the arena, we’re escorted directly from an interior landing pad to a hallway. I can’t look out, but it feels underground, and I’m certain I’m on Sub-A. I turn my head from side to side, trying to take in every detail of the place as we walk along a curved concrete floor. There are some sort of pipes to my right and doors spaced out to my left, which begin with four marked with the number 6 and go up from there. Four of the same number each time. 7, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 8 . . . It’s a bit of a hike until we get to an 11 and they direct Chicory inside. We lose the rest of our 11 allies and then a Peacekeeper opens the first door marked 12.
I hold out my arms. Without a word, Wyatt and Maysilee join in a group embrace. Lou Lou wiggles into the center of the hug and we tighten our hold, feeling one another’s pulses and sweat and skin. Ten minutes from now, who will even still have a heartbeat?
After a minute, a Peacekeeper says, “Let’s go.”
We peel off into our rooms, me last of all. Before I go in, I catch sight of the next door down the hall, which has a 1 on it. A ring of tributes for the opening ceremony.
I’m alone in a circular room with a transparent tube in the center of it. My launchpad. A neatly folded set of clothes sits on a lone chair. Black, like Maysilee suspected.
The intercom crackles to life. A voice greets me: “Welcome to your launch room.” At home we call it the Stockyard. The place where animals wait to be slaughtered. The voice instructs, “The tributes are to change into their new outfits, courtesy of the Capitol.” Courtesy of the Capitol. My flour sack shorts. Ma. Sid.
I strip, tossing my training outfit in a pile on the floor. All the arena clothes — underwear, long-sleeved shirt, pants — feel like one of the old silk scarves Lenore Dove uses to accent her costumes. Thin and cool, the
fabric runs through my hands like water. There’s a belt but no loops on the pants, only on the flowing shirt, so I fasten it around my waist. It’s made of stretchy material, and instead of a buckle, it’s secured with two metallic
circles that interlock and then unfasten with a quick twist. When I finish dressing, my knees feel wobbly and I drop into the chair, listening to the pounding of my heart. The arena’s minutes away. I can’t remember what to do. I hear Wiress’s voice. . . .
First avoid the slaughter,
Get weapons, look for water.
Water. Right. I’m supposed to drown the brain. What? More instructions. “Tributes, please enter your tubes.”
I rise shakily to my feet as the door handle turns and Effie Trinket
flies into the room. “Wait, not yet! I have to check him!” She’s white as a sheet. “I only found out I was supposed to do this at breakfast,” she says in a hushed voice. “No one could find Magno.” She quickly goes over my outfit, adjusting the belt. “Did you see this?” She shows me my pants have a handkerchief in one of the pockets, which I leave in place.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Tributes who are not in their tubes in thirty seconds will be disciplined,” says the voice.
“Come on!” Effie guides me to the tube and centers me on a glass plate. She arranges my token so it’s outside the shirt.
The trembling of her hands allows me to ask a favor. “Will you make sure my token gets home to my girl?”
Effie nods and lays a hand over it solemnly. “I will do my absolute best.” She steps back and the door begins to slide shut. “Remember,
Haymitch, don’t step off your plate for sixty seconds!” As the door clicks shut, she pumps the air with a fist and adds, “And keep a positive attitude!”
I rise up, locking my eyes on hers until things go black, making me
lose my bearings. My sweaty palms swipe the sides of the glass tube as I try
to steady myself. Then the tube runs out and I’m teetering on my plate when a gust of air hits my face and the light blinds my eyes. As they adjust, my brows shoot up in disbelief as I get my first look at the arena.
The beauty takes my breath away.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Fiftieth Hunger Games begin!” proclaims an announcer.
A scowl contracts my face as suspicion sets in. It’s just too attractive to be good. The smooth green meadow stretching for miles in either direction. The array of colorful songbirds overhead that match the tufts of cheerful flowers underfoot that match the outfits on the tributes’ backs. Sky so blue it hurts your eyes, clouds so fluffy you want to bounce on them.
And the smell! Like they bottled the best day of spring and uncorked it just for us.
I block my nose and begin to mouth-breathe to avoid the dizzying scent. I try to examine the shiny gold Cornucopia in its nest of weapons and supplies that rests in the center of the meadow fifty yards away, but a gentle breeze caresses my face, and the birdsong distracts me with thoughts of
Lenore Dove. There are woods here, too, like our woods in 12, far off to my left. To my right, a small mountain with a crown of snow. Is that where the tank is? Under the mountain?
A fluffball of a bunny rabbit hops up to my foot and nibbles the grass next to my plate, its pale gray fur tinted lilac and pink. A shade of dove. I’m reaching for the silken coat when suddenly the rabbit startles and speeds off, bringing me to my senses.
Focus! my brain orders. What are you supposed to be doing?
First avoid the slaughter,
Get weapons, look for water.
Right. I have to get weapons and get out of here. But which direction do I need to run? North. Beetee said go north. And Plutarch said the arena sun is positioned like our sun. Do I believe Plutarch? I think of getting to say good-bye to my family and how he covered for me with the milk pitcher and the call to Lenore Dove. Okay, what the hell, I do! Wiress
said to trust your instincts and mine say he was telling the truth. If I don’t locate any berms, maybe I’ll reconsider. But for now . . .
It’s nine o’clock in the morning and the sun’s rising up behind the
Cornucopia directly across from me. Okay, that’s east, west to my back, that makes north to my right. No! My left. North to the left. Where the woods are, not the mountain. That’s good news because the tributes fanned out to my right are mostly Careers, Silka on the next plate, then Panache and the other girl and boy from District 1, then District 2, while to the left it’s
nothing but Newcomers. In general, District 1’s too close for comfort, but they’ll want weapons and kills more than they’ll want to chase me down, especially if I’m armed, and there are such easy pickings. I spot Ampert and the other District 3 tributes sandwiched between Districts 2 and 4 and have to squelch the impulse to run in to protect them. Ampert wouldn’t want me to. He’d want me to clear out and find a mutt portal and rendezvous with him as soon as possible. He’ll be headed north soon, too.
I home in on a spring-green backpack near the tail of the Cornucopia.
I can run at a diagonal directly at it, grab a few weapons on the way, or at least a knife, and hopefully be gone before anyone notices. It might work — people look pretty confused. I see Panache’s head twist as a daffodil-yellow bird perches on his shoulder and twitters.
Then the gong rings out and the treads of my new boots grip the
meadow grass as I sprint for the backpack. Barely breaking pace, I scoop up a spear in my left hand and a knife in my right, which I use to hook the strap of the backpack. I allow myself one quick glance over my shoulder, which is enough to reassure me that the Careers are late to the party, some still on their plates, others slow on the uptake and just reaching the weapons. As I make for the woods, I lock eyes with Kerna for a second, clock her sunflower as she heads for a weapon. And then I just run for those distant trees.
It’s only moments before the screams begin, but I force myself to stay on course, knowing that seeing a District 12 tribute or any Newcomer at death’s door could pull me into the fray. Was that Lou Lou’s shriek? It was a girl’s, a young one’s certainly. Don’t look back, I tell myself. Don’t you
dare look back.
My right arm aches from the weight of the pack, so I take a moment to secure it on my back and slip the knife safely in my belt. Spear in my right hand now, I settle on a jog I think I can sustain for the long haul to the north. The meadow grass, which was short and even at the Cornucopia,
increases in height as I progress, until it’s tall enough to tangle my boots if I don’t step high, so I step high and keep an eye out for snakes. I only spot flowers, songbirds, and the occasional bunny. Nothing venomous or deadly.
I revisit Wiress’s checklist. First avoid the slaughter, Doing it.
Get weapons,
Got them.
look for water.
I can’t yet. Not until I’m safely in the woods and then it will have to be on my way north. Say I find it quick. Then what?
Find food and where to sleep,
Nope, way too soon. Still slaughter avoidance going on. Then I have to get as close to the tank as possible and find a mutt portal. But I feel okay about my progress.
I run as long as I can, then slow to a hike and use my spear for a walking stick. The grass now reaches my waist. Up ahead, the forest
borders the meadow in a smooth arc. The lush trees, a mix of greens with bursts of gold and orange, laden with bright blooms and ripe fruit, promise everything I seek. Shade from the hot sun, food to fill my belly, concealment from the Careers. The heady scent of pine and blossoms wafting from the woods calms my racing heart. Charming . . . enticing . . . these words don’t do it justice. There’s something almost magical about it, as if once inside those leafy arms, nothing bad could ever befall you. This must be how insects feel in the nepenthes plant, right before they drown.
Which may well be my fate when the tank explodes.
When I reach the tree line, I judge I’ve covered about two miles. I climb on a big rock to check for tributes, but the expanse of grass seems empty of both allies and enemies. The cannon shots begin, letting me know
the bloodbath at the Cornucopia has ended. Normally, they fire to confirm any death, but those come on so thick and fast at the beginning that the
Gamemakers wait until the initial killing spree has ended. The booms keep coming, resonating in my backbone, until I count eighteen of us dead. I won’t know who until tonight when they show the faces of the fallen
tributes in the sky. But there are only sixteen Careers, so the Newcomers have not been spared. Probably, many are Newcomers.
I try not to think about who, but it could be Maysilee or Wyatt or Lou Lou or Ringina or Ampert. What if Ampert has already been taken out?
What happens to the plan then? He was an easy target in that big patch of Careers. No! I tell myself. No. He’s too smart. He will find you. Just do
your part of the job.
I take a seat on the rock to catch my breath and examine my backpack. After years of hauling grain for Hattie, I can confidently judge it to be around twenty-five pounds. It’s made of a nice tough canvas with padded straps. The spring green should blend well with the trees. I hesitate before I open it — my life may well depend on the contents — then flip back the flap and begin to lay out my supplies.
A mesh hammock, same color as the pack, cushions a fancy pair of binoculars. Two plastic gallon jugs full of water. That accounts for much of the weight. A dozen apples. A dozen eggs in a cardboard carton, which I
determine are hard-boiled by spinning them. And finally, six large potatoes, which excite me until I remember I gave the light bulb kit to Maysilee.
Well, she and Wyatt stand a better chance of not getting caught cheating with Beetee’s stuff, given they’ve got a zinc scrip coin and a copper medallion between them. Hopefully, they got some potatoes, too. For me, these will probably be dinner.
To be honest, given the size of the pack and its proximity to the Cornucopia, I was hoping for better. I scrounge around inside to make sure I didn’t miss anything. An outside pocket adds a generous packet of coin- sized black tablets to my haul. I’m thinking maybe if you drop them in water, they turn into a steak dinner or something, but a cautious nibble
blows that theory. If I’m not mistaken, these are the same charcoal tablets Mamaw used to buy from the Marches’ shop for her indigestion when she overate. A bad joke on the Gamemakers’ part, given that no tribute’s in danger of overeating. They’re probably all having a good laugh at my reaction now. Whatever. Maybe I can use them for camouflage or something.
I take a big swig of water and reload my pack. No food allowed until I get a better sense of what’s available in the woods. Then I make sure the mountain’s squarely at my back and head into the trees.
It’s a relief to get off the meadow grass and onto a forest floor made of dirt covered in pine needles. Scattered patches of emerald moss and a
rainbow of ferns add a decorative touch. In a few minutes, I spot my first berm, smooth and symmetrical with a glorious layer of buttercups. Plutarch was right about that much anyway. Does it conceal a mutt portal? No time to check now, and anyway, I’m not northerly enough.
The woods are as picture-perfect as the meadow, full of sweet colorful things, but the farther I press on, the madder I get. That tree? Groaning with apples. Those nests? Full of eggs. And streams burbling with crystal-clear water abound. If it’s in my backpack, it’s easy pickings. Probably I could dig anywhere and find potatoes. Was my entire pack just a big joke?
Here I am, hauling twenty-five extra pounds around like a saphead. Part of me feels like dumping the contents on the ground but then I’d just have to waste time collecting it all again, so I keep trudging on, noting the
berms along the way. I hear two more cannon shots. Twenty dead now. In a usual Games, only four tributes would be left alive. This year, twenty-eight of us remain.
When my thirst begins to get to me, I stop by a stream. Propping my pack against a tree, I scoop up a few handfuls of icy water. It’s a little metallic, but not so much as our well water back home. I slow down, though, because guzzling cold water on a hot day can give me a bellyache.
As I lean against my pack, a dove-colored rabbit hops up across the stream from me and helps itself to a good, long drink. It sits on the bank, ears twitching, reminding me that I’ve helped Burdock set snares on
occasion. I don’t have any wire, though. And could I possibly kill a creature that brings to mind my girl?
I’m pondering this when the bunny starts squealing like a baby bird, goes stiff as a board, then falls over dead. A trickle of red stains the fur on its chin.
