When evening falls, I go ahead and start the fire. Ampert wakes and we toast bread and cheese, then eat it with apples. He says he doesn’t want to go back to the Newcomers in the dark and we plan for him to stay the night. In the flickering flames, I remember how my shirt didn’t so much as char in the gas plant blaze. Ampert pulls off one of his socks and dips it in the fire, where it glows for quite a while before the toes begin to melt.
Seems like a clue. Perhaps it’s protective, but from what? I’ve only encountered one gas plant berm. The clothing suggests any number of things could burn.
As if inspired by the cookfire, Ampert says he’d like to try and catch something to eat to repay me for the food. His token has gotten tangled up with the two District 9 sunflowers, so he removes all three at once and lays
them on the ground. He separates his fuse and says, “I might be able to fashion a snare from this. But do you think the animals are poisonous?”
“Maybe not the rabbits,” I tell him. “I watched one die from drinking water — it seemed as susceptible as we are. Of course, they could be carrying rabbit fever.”
“What’s that?”
“Sickness. You don’t want it. But if we cook it through, it might be safe.” All of this is just chatter meant to mislead the Gamemakers. We’re
not trapping rabbits. Or cooking their meat. Or even counting on being here for breakfast. “Worth a try.”
Ampert begins to unweave his token, simultaneously winding the black fuse around his hand. When he reaches the end, he surreptitiously
tucks something that must be the blasting cap in the coils. “I’ll give it a go in the morning. You can keep anything it catches.” His eyes fall on the sunflowers. “Do you want a sunflower? I bet Nine would like you to wear one. You’re the reason they were in the alliance.”
“It was really Maysilee who won them over,” I respond. “You
should’ve seen them stand up to Panache. Thought he was doing them some big favor letting them join the Careers, and they shut him down like that.” I snap my fingers and smile at the memory. “Yeah, I’ll wear one. They were good allies.” I hang the bloodstained sunflower around my neck.
The anthem begins, but no faces appear tonight. “Still twenty-six of us,” I say.
Ampert wraps his arms around his knees. “Can we stay by the fire awhile? I don’t like the dark.”
Even though we need the fire for the plot, this rings true. Ampert puts on a brave face, but I can imagine what images haunt him after the bloodbath. “We can sleep here if you want. I don’t think the tree will work for both of us. We can take turns being on watch,” I tell him. “Go ahead and rest some more.”
“Can I have some water?”
I give him the full jug and he downs a few swigs.
“Wake me when you’ve had enough,” says Ampert. “I’ll be ready.” He takes a final mouthful of water and lies down.
He’s leaving it to me to call the shots. “Okay,” I say. “Sweet dreams.” In a few minutes, he’s either sleeping or making a good show of it. I keep guard, my spear resting on my knees, waiting for its big moment when I use it to pry open the berm. I’m glad that’s its job, instead of taking someone’s life. If I make it out of the Games without killing anybody, that will be a victory in itself.
I say my good-byes to those I love. Burdock and Blair. Hattie. Ma and Sid. And finally, Lenore Dove, my rare and radiant girl. I try not to be
scared. I tell myself that everybody has to die sometime, and my number’s up. In a way, it’s a comfort that a bunch of people I know have gone before me. Pa and Mamaw and the twins and Louella and Wyatt and Lou Lou and a lot of the Newcomers. Maybe Lenore Dove’s right, and I will meet up with them, and one day with her, in another world. Or maybe there’s just nothing, in which case, it won’t hurt any. Mostly, I just don’t know.
The darkness deepens, the air cools, and when I think it’s past midnight and the audience has gone to bed, leaving a handful of
Gamemakers to mind the show, I light a torch branch. Crouching down, I tap Ampert on the shoulder and say softly, “Hey, buddy, let’s beat those odds.”
Ampert jumps to his feet immediately, thrusting the coiled fuse into my hand. “You’ll have sixty seconds,” he whispers. This is followed by the explosive, which feels soft and sticky like putty and has been shaped into a block. That last mouthful of water was put to good use. I pocket the
materials and without further conversation, we cross to the berm. He holds the torch while I drive the tip of my spear into the crack held by the branch that I left behind yesterday. Using my full body weight for leverage, I pry
the sides of the berm apart. The mouth yawns, then begins to slide closed, but not before I wedge the spear between the lips, holding the hatch open wide. To one side, a utility ladder runs down into the depths.
A mechanical buzz of protest comes from below. Ampert passes me the torch. “I’ll be here.”
He looks so young, standing there in the flickering light, armed only with an ax I doubt he’s strong enough to wield. I slide my knife into his belt, muss his hair like I do Sid’s, and say, “Best ally ever.” He gives me a lopsided grin and I hop onto the ladder. Torch in one hand, I begin my descent. My feet feel stiff and clumsy on the thin rungs. “Right, left, right,
left,” I instruct them. Five, ten, twenty feet down and I land on concrete in a narrow hallway and turn to my right, which seems in the northerly direction. I trot along with the help of my torch and the dim utility lights that glow along the side of the floor.
I haven’t gone far when I realize the internal wall on my left is not a wall at all. Metal . . . ribbed . . . every few feet, a water droplet, shaped like a tear, has been stamped at about eye level. This must be the side of the water tank, and it’s indeed massive, running from the concrete floor twenty feet up to the ceiling. The droplets stretch as far as I can see in either direction. What could they possibly need this much water for? Do they intend to turn the entire arena into a lake? I hesitate, trying to assess the most effective point to place the explosive. Then I give up and slap it a few feet below the droplet right in front of me. What does it matter, really,
where the tank is damaged? With a flick of my wrist, I unfurl the fuse and
slide it through my fingers, smudging them with black, until they find the blasting cap. Lucky I paid attention in class. I place the cap in the explosive and steel myself. No time like the present. I dip my torch to the end of the fuse, watch the flame eat through the first inches, leaving only the faintest
trace of ash, and run like hell. Sixty seconds and counting.
One hundred one, one hundred two, one hundred three . . . I track the time in my head as my feet pound down the concrete. The ladder comes into view and I fling my branch aside, as it’s slowing me down and I trust that Ampert will be waiting at the top with a second torch. I know it might be wiser to embrace my death now, but there’s something in a person that wants to live. Even if it’s only for a few more hours. One hundred twenty,
one hundred twenty-one . . . Besides, there is Ampert to think about. I may still be able to offer him some protection.
I hear them before I see them. A delicate chirping sound, not unlike a bird, overlaid with occasional squeaks. Whatever they are, they don’t sound threatening. I’m more perplexed than alarmed. Perhaps a flock of songbirds has escaped and flies free in Sub-A, like the birds do in the rafters of the chariot horse stable. As my hands hit the first rung of the ladder, I look up in time to catch sight of Ampert’s face lit by torchlight. Then a swirl of color obscures his image and spirals down at me.
Transparent wings tinted every color of the rainbow flash above me.
They catch the firelight, making them shine like the hard candy in the Donners’ shop window on a sunny day. It’d be something to admire, except each three-foot-wide pair of wings carries a vicious face and two back feet sporting four-inch curved claws. Genetically engineered bat muttations.
Designed to shred me to slaw.
These creatures haven’t broken out of a cage; they’re a gift from the Capitol.
One hundred thirty-six, one hundred thirty-seven —
“Haymitch!” I hear Ampert cry out. “Catch!”
He releases the torch, which scatters the bat formation for a second, and I somehow manage to grab it. With my free hand, I begin to scale the ladder, waving the fire above my head. But these are no butterflies, simple to ignite and destroy; they are sinewy mammals that can turn on a dime.
They evade my torch and begin to claw me, taking painful swipes at my
shoulders and back, causing blood to flow. Climb I must, though, because the clock’s ticking and if I’m not aboveground, I’ll be drowned for sure.
I’m not going to make it. I’ve lost count, but I’m thinking at any moment that tank will blow and there will be nowhere for that water to go but into this hallway. I take a final swing at the bats, solidly connecting with the one with its claws sunk into my thigh, and hurl the torch at their evil
faces. My fingers fumble for my belt, unhook the interlocking rings, wrap the belt around a ladder rail, and secure the clasp. I throw my arms around the ladder, brace my legs, and hang on for dear life, filling my lungs with deep breaths. About five seconds and three bat scratches later, deafened by squeaks and hisses, I think I’ve made a mistake. I’ve bungled setting the explosive, or the cap was a dud, or a Gamemaker has arrived in time to yank the fuse from the putty —
An earsplitting blast almost knocks me off the ladder and I’m totally submerged in water. Icy-cold blackness engulfs me, rips one arm free.
Without the belt, I’d be a goner, but somehow, I regain my grip and cling to the bars with every limb, eyes closed tight against the flood. After what
seems like forever, the current eases enough for me to pop open my belt and continue my ascent. By this point, the burning in my lungs has pushed all other fears into the background. Legs floating free, I drag myself up the ladder. I’m about to black out when my face breaks through the surface.
Between great gasps of air, I choke and gag up the bucket of water that managed to force its way in, despite my best efforts.
The good news is that the bats have disappeared, hopefully drowned in the initial wave. Also, the water lacks the metallic taste of the stream. I’m thinking they didn’t bother to poison that colossal tankful, but targeted the
streams individually, so my mutt wounds have been washed clean safely. Glass half-full.
When I get my breathing and shivers in check, I call for Ampert.
Above me, in the dim light of the fake moon, I can see the spear still propping open the berm, but no sign of him. Something isn’t right. He wouldn’t leave me to fend for myself. When the wave came, did the bats
have time to escape through the berm and attack him? It seems unlikely that even they could fly that swiftly, as the water came almost simultaneously with the boom. Then what has happened to him? Careers? Gamemaker
attacks?
I scale the ladder as fast as my frozen muscles will allow. As I reach the surface of the arena, I survey the woods, softly glowing in the mix of moon and firelight. Our campsite remains as we left it, with my pack and the rumpled hammock on the ground. No sign of Ampert, but no sign of a struggle either. What has led him to abandon his post?
I wrench the spear from the berm. The lips try to close, but damage has occurred, and they end in a sort of floral leer. I call softly, “Ampert? Ampert?” No response.
My hearing’s funny from either the water or the blast, but a sound
reaches my ears, only just distinguishable from the usual nighttime hum of the forest. Animal, but distinct from the bats. Not chirping but chattering,
coming from multiple mouths. I grab the hammock, wrapping it around my left forearm, thinking a net might come in handy, and creep toward the chatter. The sound intensifies, making my skin crawl, but I push forward until I break into a small circular clearing.
The trees buzz with life. I make out the hundreds of squirrel-like creatures, swarming around in their gorgeous golden coats, their eyes shining as if lit from within. Cute in a way, but too hyper, bouncing from branch to branch, gnashing their long rectangular front teeth in agitation. Mutts. They only pause to emit piercing rodent screams at a mound of their comrades in the center of the clearing. The boldest are fighting viciously, throwing themselves onto the heap, kicking one another away with powerful hindquarters. One flies through the air and lands at my feet.
Before it springs back up, I spy a bloody scrap of electric-blue fabric snagged on its incisors, and everything becomes clear. Carnivorous mutts. Tearing Ampert apart.
I promised Beetee I would not let him suffer. Flinging my hammock to its full length, I holler and lunge for the pile. The hammock snares the furry bodies, and I jerk it toward me, succeeding in unseating a layer or two of mutts. Then I flip around my spear to use as a club and swing it across
the mound again and again, sweeping the squirrels away. I prepare myself for their attack, for the inevitable tearing of my flesh, but nothing happens.
The moment one’s knocked free of the mound, it dives back in. These are programmed for Ampert, and Ampert alone. His look, his smell, his taste.
I am losing, I am losing the fight, I am losing him. I know this, but there’s nothing to do but keep swinging. I never even get a glimpse of Ampert, just writhing furry bodies fighting for a piece of him. Finally, as if someone blew a whistle, audible only to them, hundreds of heads pop up and turn in unison toward an unseen master. A mad dash ensues, and in
seconds the squirrels have vanished into the foliage.
Panting, I watch them fade away. Then I turn back to what I am meant to witness. A small white skeleton, stripped clean to the bone. No flesh or clothing remains, only an ax at its right side, my knife at its left. My lips move, but no sound comes out. “Buddy?” I stumble forward, spotting his tracker, wedged just below his elbow. There is no one to comfort, to ease out of this world. Ampert’s been swallowed up by the Capitol, and his coffin will hold only these pearly white bones.
A cannon fires.
Somewhere, Beetee’s heart breaks into fragments so small it can never be repaired. Mine pounds like a drum as a wave of rage surges into it.
My head drops back and I emit a howl that bounces off the fake sky and echoes around the arena. I want to kill them all, Snow, the Gamemakers,
every person in the Capitol who has been party to this atrocity. But they are
safely out of reach, so I drop my spear, grab the ax, and begin to chop away at the arena, determined to take it apart, piece by piece — the trees, the berry bushes, the birds’ nests — as inhuman sounds roar out of me.
I am hacking a berm of bluebells to bits when the earth begins to
shake so violently that I’m thrown from my feet onto a bank of moss. My
fingers dig into the stuff, and I hold my position as branches and debris rain down on me. When the earth settles, I scream at the sky, “Ha! You missed!” I spring to my feet and start careening through the trees like a wild man. “I’m still here! I’m still here!”
When I stagger onto our campsite, I catch sight of the berm and
realize that something much bigger than targeting me is happening. The mouth opens and closes spasmodically, sending bursts of blossoms into the air. In the trees behind it, a herd of adorable baby deer runs around in a frenzy, rearing up to show spiked hooves slashing viciously at the air. An
apple tree has transformed into a fountain of blue sparks, and clouds of steam rise from a nearby stream. Everything’s taken on an eerie, dreamlike quality. Either the arena’s malfunctioning or I’ve been licking toads.
Half afraid to hope, I slowly raise my eyes upward to see the night sky, which cuts in and out like bad television reception. A burst of static dazzles, then suddenly, I’m looking straight up at the real sky. A gush of fresh air fills my lungs, and moonlight illuminates the chaos. It worked! We
have done it! Me and Ampert and Beetee and District 9 and a slew of
people I’ve never heard of — we have drowned the brain! We have broken the arena!
This is my poster. Right here. I give a wild victory cry and spin around shouting, “Did you all want a party? I’ll give you a party!”
Lightning flashes, a clap of thunder booms. I dance around the berm, bellowing the first thing that comes to mind for all of Panem to hear. A song too dangerous to sing —
They hang the man and flog the woman Who steals the goose from off the common, Yet let the greater villain loose
That steals the common from the goose.
I extend my arms to the stars, Sid’s stars, all of our stars.
The law locks up the man or woman
Who steals the goose from off the common. And geese will still a common lack
Till they go and steal it back.
I jump up and down hollering, “We got it back! We’re getting it back!”
Finally, I drop to my knees, arch my back, stretch out my arms, and
embrace the sky. Only it goes pitch-black, as suddenly as if someone threw a switch. A low humming emanates from the forest floor. What’s causing
that? I get a bad feeling. To my horror, I see the arena sky flicker back into focus.
“No . . . no!” I cry out. The berm’s still going at it, and sparks still spray from the apple tree, but the woods as a whole seems to have quieted. Maybe that’s okay, maybe that’s just part of it shutting down. To be sure, I dig in my pack, sling the binoculars around my neck, and fly to my sleeping tree, scurrying up the trunk like a squirrel mutt. When I reach my lookout position, I sway in the branches, peering through the lenses for an answer.
Have I truly broken the arena? Are the Games finished?
Far in the distance, beyond the meadow, the mountain erupts in a fountain of lethal gold, and I have my answer. For me, the party is over.
