The cannon fires to confirm her death as her body goes limp.
Whoever Lou Lou was, she’s moved on. Her slight, starved frame lies quiet, finally beyond the Capitol’s reach. I lean down and whisper into her bad ear. A personal message to the Gamemakers. “You did this to her. This is who you are.” And then for Lou Lou, I say the thing she no longer can.
“Murderers.”
In answer, a hovercraft appears, waiting for me to step aside so it can collect her body.
Lou Lou won’t be on the hill with me and Louella. They can’t send back two bodies to District 12 without exposing their incompetence. So where will you go, little girl? Back to 11? Into Capitol soil? Or will they
incinerate your body and leave no trace of you behind? Either way, mine will be the last touch of someone who cares about you.
The thought of Capitol hands disposing of her infuriates me. And like my Louella, I cannot give her up without a fight. I lift her into my arms and head into an area of the densest trees I can spot. Are they showing me to the audience? Can they witness my refusal to hand over Lou Lou? Do I have
the Capitol viewers glued to the screen? The rascal has run off with his district partner — again! The rascal will make the Gamemakers chase him down! Delighted laughter, phone calls to friends, are you watching this?
Lou Lou’s body’s noticeably lighter than Louella’s. The ferocity that gave her weight has vanished. I locate a clump of willows and hunker down in the center, catching glimpses of the hovercraft overhead. A claw descends, tangles in the treetops, withdraws, and makes a second attempt.
They can’t reach us. For the moment she’s safe.
As my breathing calms, I realize I’m playing right into Snow’s hands. This is exactly the behavior I’ve been forbidden to engage in, and there will be repercussions. Deadly ones. Soon. And I will have lost my chance to
blow up the tank. How to salvage this moment? Take Lou Lou out and give them a rascally “just kidding” wave? Set her down and run and hide? Just stay put and wait for the claw to break through and then helpfully place her in its jaws?
Indecision immobilizes me. The Gamemakers seem immobilized as well. The hovercraft remains static, claw retracted. A standoff. We are waiting each other out. It would be peaceful if not for the looming sense of danger.
It comes in the form of a brilliant blue butterfly. Almost the same
electric blue of District 3’s outfits. It navigates the willow tree branches and lights on a nearby bough. I can’t seem to tear my eyes from the pattern of tiny golden lightning bolts decorating its wings. Then another lands over my head. And a third, on the back of the hand that cradles Lou Lou’s blood- streaked face. As if in slow motion, a stinger descends, a tiny spark jumps off my flesh as it makes contact, and a jolt of pain blinds me. An involuntary scream parts my lips, Lou Lou has tumbled to the ground. My vision returns in time for me to see a second butterfly come for my face.
My cheek explodes with what I can now recognize as an electric shock, as if the butterflies have mini tasers in their stingers. One of Snow’s beauties.
Raw panic consumes me; all I know is I never want to be stung again.
I burst out of the willow bower, leaving Lou Lou to the Gamemakers.
Hundreds of butterflies, dotting the trees, come to life and target me. I sprint into the woods, oblivious to all but escape, but they swarm after me. Not with the drunken motion I associate with the butterflies back home, but in a straight line. I’m bobbing and weaving, trying to evade them, but they keep
landing stings, each one momentarily freezing me. It isn’t enough to have left Lou Lou; these things are bent on torturing me. This is about punishment. As public as possible.
I’m not really sure how long this goes on, seems endless, like I’m losing my sanity, when I fall face-first into a berm of flowers. Afraid of Lou Lou’s fate, I spring up, toppling into a heap beside the berm, frantically wiping my face. But it’s not the bee balm, it’s the gas plants. As a cloud of butterflies descends, I get an idea. After retrieving my flint striker and rock from my pocket, I start making some sparks of my own, sending showers of them into the blossoms. Five-foot flames erupt off the plants, engulfing the butterflies and lapping at my chest, before disappearing. My shirt front
glows for a few moments, like a bed of coals, then returns to black, apparently fireproof. A few crispy skeletons float down, but the attack has ended. The stragglers loopily fly away, the picture of innocence.
I lie gasping on the ground, examining my body for wounds. There’s absolutely nothing — not a blister, not a scratch. Only the memory of the
terrible pain. I press my lips to the flint striker, hoping Lenore Dove sees me, knows this is a thank-you to her for saving me from the mutts.
The mutts! This is it! This is my chance to follow them to their berm! However, I don’t jump up; the recent attack has zapped some sense into me. For once in your life, be smart, I think. Do this, but do not jeopardize the
arena plan. Why would I possibly be chasing mutt butterflies? Only one answer: retaliation.
A nearby branch caught fire when the gas plants blazed. I break it from the tree and take off in the general direction of the butterflies. When I catch a glimpse of blue, I know I’m on the right course. Another twenty
yards of charging through the woods brings me to a berm covered in flowering bushes. It has slid open as if on tracks, leaving a six-foot-wide gulf right down the middle of the circle. The butterflies make their lazy way into it. For the benefit of the Gamemakers, I rage at them, swinging my torch around madly, incinerating a half dozen or so when I notice the berm beginning to slide closed. As if in a last-ditch effort, I lunge at the final mutt and succeed in wedging the branch between the lips of the hatch. It clamps shut, crushing the wood but leaving an eighth-of-an-inch opening in the seam. I pretend not to notice and slump down next to the berm. The sign
reads BUTTERFLY BUSH. Well, I won’t forget that one.
I think about going back to look for Lou Lou, but I know she’s long gone. Instead, I make my way back to the bee balm, careful not to inhale too deeply, and collect my things. Still no sign of anyone else.
My skin may be as smooth as a baby’s behind, but I’m twitchy from the multiple shocks and done in for the day. I’ve achieved my two tasks, though: making fire and finding a mutt berm. The shadows are growing
long, which means I need to start searching for somewhere to sleep,
conscious that my piss-poor hiding place from last night must be improved upon. I’m not dizzy now, so I pick a sizable tree with thick foliage near the butterfly bush and climb about thirty feet into the branches. I pitch my hammock between two sturdy limbs, making sure that if one side gives way, I’ll have a fork to catch me. This wasn’t recommended in the class, but I don’t feel secure enough to sleep at ground level again. Famished, I eat
three eggs and a couple of apples. Surely, sponsors will enable my mentors to replenish my pantry soon. Through the trees, the sunset glows golden, then the orange of burning coal, before fading out, leaving me in darkness.
At the sound of the anthem, I position myself to get a clear view of the sky. The first tribute. More snot green. The boy from District 1 who isn’t Panache. Then Lou Lou, pictured with her snake. I wonder if,
anywhere in Panem, a family member or playmate recognizes her for who she really is. The McCoys must know she’s a fake. Surely, they do. Right
now, they must be weeping and wondering where their own darling girl has gone. At least that’s one terrible conversation I’ve been spared.
Five Careers gone. Seventeen Newcomers. Twenty-six of us left.
The woods quiet down. A clear yellow moonlight filters through the trees. Honestly, I think I’m the only one on this side of the arena, but you never know. I wonder how Maysilee’s doing — just the two of us left from
12 now — and if there’s any chance I might see her again. Funny missing Maysilee Donner, but there it is.
Grateful I don’t snore, I let myself fall into a dreamless sleep.
Something startles me awake, and I see a parachute with a good-sized bundle caught in the sunlit branches above my head. My first sponsor’s gift. I untangle it, set it on my lap, take a deep breath — right now it could hold anything! — and then open it. A dozen white rolls still warm from the oven, a block of orange cheese, and what looks like a bottle of wine, complete with its own long-stemmed glass goblet. This actually coaxes a smile from me. I uncork the bottle and take a sniff. Grape juice. Bet this cost someone a pretty penny. Water would’ve been more sensible, since I’m about through my first gallon, but I’m not complaining. Grape juice is a big treat back home, reserved for birthdays and wedding punch. Who sent it? The lady with the cat ears? The man I spit on? Great-Aunt Messalina? Right now, I don’t even care.
I tip the bottle over my elegant glass, admiring it as the juice fills the stem, then the bowl. Giving the audience a knowing grin, I raise it in a toast and say, “Thank you, my fellow rascals from the Capitol!” Then I take a
slow sip, easing my parched mouth. It’s so full of goodness, not just the
taste but the happy memories it conjures up, that I have to keep myself from
gulping it down. Accompanied by a couple of fresh rolls and a chunk of fatty cheese, it restores me enough to face the day.
While I breakfast, I review why, from the Capitol sponsors’ perspective, I think I’ve earned this expensive gift. I evaded the bloodbath with supplies and weapons, I survived poisoning, I made fire, cooked food, torched some butterflies, and found a tree to sleep in. Conclusion: I’m fairly resourceful and clearly selfish enough to win.
I’m worried that the districts have a low opinion of me for abandoning the Newcomers. Trying to save Lou Lou might’ve helped. And if I blow up the arena, I guess I’ll be welcome back in 12 again. Not that going home is a possibility. Still, I want Sid to be able to hold his head up, not be ashamed of me forever.
Since I’ve made camp near my berm, there’s no point in traveling anywhere. Nothing to do but wait for Ampert to arrive with his token fuse and the District 9 sunflower explosive. I’m pretty worn out from Days 1 and 2 of the Games, so I just hang out in my hammock, keeping an eye out for butterflies. By early afternoon, I begin to get restless. We should have worked up a better rendezvous plan. The woods are deep and wide; we could easily miss each other. Far north could still be miles away. Something to remember when I get down in that tunnel. I may still have a long way to go before I reach the tank.
I decide to go look for Ampert.
As I pack up my supplies, carefully wrapping my goblet in the hammock, I come upon the binoculars and try them out. That inspires me to climb higher and get a better sense of the lay of the land. Near the tippy-top of the tree, which towers over most, I can see a great distance. I’m again struck by the beauty of the place, the idyllic woods, the uniform sweep of meadow, the snowcapped peak which now sits under the arch of a shimmering rainbow. I judge the mountain to be about five or six miles away. That’s where the rest of the kids are presumably hunting one another down. So different from here, where I’m purely up against the Gamemakers. The sea of trees continues behind me, but seems to narrow to a point in the distance. It’s impossible to tell exactly how far away that is,
since everything starts to look a little blurry. Does that indicate it’s the end of the arena?
I twist back around to view the meadow again and catch sight of a bit of electric blue near the Cornucopia moving toward the woods. Ampert?
Worried I will miss him among the trees, I climb down and head for the meadow, hoping to intercept him. Along the way, I cut small, discreet
notches in the bases of trees with my knife, leaving markers for my return. Backtracking takes me farther from my target, but I’ll need Ampert with me, one way or the other.
When I reach the tree line, I climb onto a rock and survey the meadow through my binoculars. It’s Ampert, all right, about a mile away, tromping toward me. The expression on his face, so grim and sad, forged by the last
few horrific days, reminds me that I’ve had it easier than most. Around his neck I spy two sunflower tokens, one stained with blood. At least he’s been spared watching his own district mates’ deaths, since none have appeared in the sky. I bet he hasn’t had much to eat and I’ll need him on his toes for the tank bombing. Should I make some sandwiches?
Wait a minute. Once again, what am I doing? Why has the rascal,
after running away from the Newcomers, caught sight of Ampert and returned to the edge of the woods? This is different from Lou Lou; she found me. My behavior sure seems suspicious. Like I’ve been waiting for him the whole time. I don’t think this will matter to the audience, but what are the Gamemakers going to make of it? I told them I was only out for myself. What could have drawn me back to Ampert? The answer can’t be explosives. What would extend my survival? I’ve got my own food and water and charcoal tablets and weapons — what can Ampert offer me?
The one thing I don’t have much of is information. I know who’s dead but who killed them and how? What weapons arm the Careers?
Have they discovered anything to eat and drink in here that isn’t poisonous?
Except for Lou Lou, I’ve been alone, and she wasn’t exactly a wealth of information.
Okay, then. This rascal wants an update.
Cocky. Out for myself. Sarcastic. Nice to the other Newcomers. I’m channeling all these things so I can present a consistent character to the audience, but when Ampert arrives, he throws his arms around me and I just hug him back and say, “Hey, buddy.” I’m surprised by how small he feels,
because he’s such a take-charge kind of kid. But he’s only about Sid’s size and plenty scared. Even the brightest brain can’t think its way out of being trapped in the arena.
“The Newcomers need you back,” he says. “They sent me to find
you.”
Good. That’s why the Gamemakers will think he’s here.
“We talked about this. My scoring a one makes me dangerous to be
around,” I say for the audience’s benefit. I don’t want my gifts to dry up because I’m shirking my Newcomer duties. Also, Sid needs to hear my motive for ditching them.
“Lou Lou ran off. Then we saw her in the sky.”
“Case in point,” I say, stepping back from him. “She found me, and she’s dead now. We didn’t see the poison flowers coming.”
“Those are poisonous, too?” he asks.
“At least the bee balm. The gas plants came in handy when I needed to barbeque some butterfly mutts. The Gamemakers sent those after me.
You hungry?” He nods vigorously. “How about a trade? Some lunch for a mountain update?”
I spread out a big picnic on the rock: rolls, cheese, eggs, apples, and a wineglass of grape juice for him. I don’t interrupt as he wolfs the food down, pretty sure he hasn’t eaten much in here. He doesn’t even have a pack of supplies, just an ax in his belt and a sunhat made of leaves. When
he finishes, he wipes his mouth and sighs. “I wish I could’ve shared that with the others. The Careers got most of the food.”
“How are you guys holding up?” I ask.
“It’s tough. We’ve lost seventeen now. All but Lou Lou at the bloodbath.”
“Nobody got poisoned?”
“Oh, several of us did. But Wellie figured out about everything being poisonous almost immediately. And Hull’s pack had a big bottle of the syrup antidote. None of us died from poison.”
“Syrup? I had these.” I pull out the tablets and show him. “Else I’d be gone, too.”
“Must’ve been bad. No one to look after you.” I shrug. Then I have to ask. “Wyatt?”
Ampert reaches into his pocket and passes me Wyatt’s token.
“Panache killed him. And five others. With a sword. Maritte’s wicked with the trident. Silka used an ax, it’s sharp as a razor, and I saw . . .” His voice chokes off.
“I get the picture. Maysilee’s okay, though, right?”
“I don’t know. She got separated from us during the bloodbath.
Haven’t seen her in the sky, though. I’m guessing she’s still on the mountain, same as the rest of the Newcomers. We’ve been trying to stick together, like we planned. The Careers followed us there.”
A despicable thought crosses my mind, that Maysilee has somehow joined up with the Careers. Then I remember how combative she was with Silka from the first encounter and feel ashamed of myself. I examine the
necklace she wove to securely carry Wyatt’s scrip coin. She spent most of her training hours helping the Newcomers display their tokens with pride, when she could have been learning skills to protect herself. Whatever else she may be, Maysilee Donner is not a turncoat.
I tell Ampert, “Wherever she is, she’s making trouble for the Careers.
You can count on that.” When I hook Wyatt’s token around my neck, it’s like having both him and Maysilee with me.
For a while, Ampert and I just sit there, letting the breeze cool us, staring at the ridiculously pretty, flower-scented meadow, listening to the
songbirds. I pour another glass of juice, which we pass between us. Every
sense is being catered to, every element designed to soothe. We’re cocooned in soft pleasures as we face our deaths.
“So you won’t come back?” Ampert asks.
“It wouldn’t help. I’m a mutt magnet. And clearly no judge of flowers.”
“Can you show me around the woods at least? We need to get off that mountain, but no one knows if it’s worse here.”
“If that’s what you want. But I can’t promise to keep you safe from the Gamemakers.”
Ampert laughs a bit. “What a funny thing to say. Who could?”
When we finish the juice, I lead him into the woods. My giving him
the tour is the perfect cover story, really. Not that he gets much information besides “Watch out for the stream — it’s poisonous. And the fruit. And
those flowers over there, too.” Basically, I could’ve just said everything’s
poisonous and left it at that. But I play the guide. I show him the berms with the bee balm and the gas plants, saving the butterfly bush for last. “This here’s where the butterflies went. The ones I didn’t burn to a crisp.”
I see him eye the branch, but he only says, “Do you think it’s safe to be near their home?”
Home. He calls it their home. Is it because he misses his own so much? Twelve years old . . . barely five feet tall . . . his voice still hasn’t even changed. If I’m homesick, what must it be like for him?
“Well, I don’t really think anybody much is at home,” I say. “There weren’t many left. No more than we can handle. And they don’t kill you when they sting, just give you a nasty shock. I had dozens and I’m fine. So it’s probably safer than a lot of places, since they tend to space the mutts
out.” Do they? Maybe. But at least it explains why we should hang around the berm.
“Could I rest here a bit, do you think?”
I look at his puffy eyes. “Sure. I don’t really have any plans this
afternoon.” I make him a bed out of my hammock and he tosses a bit, then drifts off to sleep. Looking at him, I can’t help thinking that all the little
ones seem to end up with me. Louella. Lou Lou. Ampert. I can’t keep a one of them safe. Why do they flock to me?
When Ampert’s settled into a deep slumber, I begin my preparations for the bombing, gathering double the wood and pine needles I did yesterday. This will be a nighttime job, and the fire’s my responsibility, both for illumination and ignition. Since my butterfly torch held up pretty well, I make sure and break off a few more branches from what I judge to be the
same kind of tree. Not wanting to waste my fuel, I set up the fire site, but
hold off on lighting it. No potatoes tonight. I’ll leave them for Ampert, who stands a better chance of surviving our mission.
If I do this thing right, blow open the tank and set off a flood, likely it will take me out. I mean, six feet of fuse does not allow for much of an
escape window. If the explosion doesn’t finish me off, surely the water will. I console myself with the thought that either of those deaths will be far kinder than anything the Capitol will devise for me if I somehow make it out of Sub-A alive.
Hoping for something better could be dangerous; it could blind me to the reality of my situation. I remember how Mamaw always said, “Where
there’s life, there’s hope.” But from where I’m sitting, hope seems a lot like white liquor. It can fool you in the short run, but like as not, you’ll end up paying for it twice.
