Maysilee joins me at the cliff’s edge and stares down into the canyon. “That’s all there is to the arena, Haymitch. Let’s go back.”
My latest scheme to disable the generator has led to yet another dead end. Of course it has. The absurdity of it all, the Games, the two failed
arena plots, life in general, overwhelms me. Is there a third way to break the arena that I am missing? Maybe. Probably. But I can’t think of it at the moment.
The biggest form of resistance I can come up with now is to refuse to go back through that hedge. Maysilee’s wrong: This stretch of ground is not the arena; it’s not pretty in the least. If the Gamemakers want me dead, they will have to follow me out here into the real world, which would be a victory of a sort. I will have outsmarted them in some small fashion. And at
least the air is fresh and the sun is in the right spot. At any rate, I’m not going back into their poisonous cage.
“No. I’m staying here,” I tell Maysilee.
There’s a long pause. “All right, there’s only five of us left. May as well say good-bye now anyway. I don’t want it to come down to you and me.”
Me neither. And the idea that I would be helping Maysilee or Wellie by continuing to participate in the Games seems laughable. All my allies die while the Gamemakers, apparently, are safe as houses with me. “Okay,” I say.
I hear her footsteps return to the hedge.
A cannon fires. My head jerks around, as does hers. We each expected the other to be dead, and neither of us have time to hide the anguish on our faces.
Maysilee swallows hard. “Four of us now.”
She looks so lost it totals me. Maybe we two should stick it out together. How do I know? I feel like I constantly demonstrate poor judgment. I don’t feel qualified to choose between fried or scrambled eggs. Nothing makes sense in the face of the forty-four dead tributes plus Lou Lou and Woodbine gone from this world.
“You sure you want to split up?” I ask.
She doesn’t know either. I can tell, deep down, she’s as clueless as me. There’s no good rule book on what to do in our situation. No brilliant strategy.
“The only thing I’m sure about right now is I don’t want anyone to steal our potatoes,” she admits. “I’ll get them. Then we’ll weigh our options, all right?”
I lift my hands in defeat. “Well, if you’re going to drag the potatoes into it, how can I say no?”
Maysilee shrugs and disappears into the hedge. I walk along the cliff, wondering if there’s any way I might be able to climb down and reach the generator. My foot inadvertently knocks a reddish pebble over the side, and I listen for how long it takes to hit rock bottom. Too long. I’d never make it. I step away and plunk down on my butt, another plan busted, when suddenly the pebble flies back over the edge and bounces to a stop beside me.
I examine it, confused by its reappearance. Could someone have thrown it back? Doesn’t seem likely. I hop up, collect a nearby rock, and
toss it at the generator, tracking its descent. A few yards above the machine, it inexplicably bounces back up to me, reversing its trajectory and landing right in my hand, a little warmer than before. It must be, it has to be, some sort of force field positioned over the generator. Easier than stretching a
tarp, I guess. A way of protecting it from the elements, wildlife, and, as it turns out, a rascal of a tribute. I suppose it’s not impossible that a rebel
might try to sabotage the thing, but it seems unlikely they’d make their way to the middle of nowhere. Although, here I am. But even if I dropped a boulder down there, I couldn’t touch the thing.
Honestly, my luck’s so bad, I can’t help laughing.
That’s when I hear Maysilee begin to scream. In a flash, I’m on my feet and thrashing through the smoky tunnel in the hedge. I spy bright
patches of pink up ahead, hear honking, not unlike Lenore Dove’s geese. My ax is out of my belt, drawn and ready as I leave the holly bushes for a whirlwind of feathers.
The two dozen waterbirds remind me of ones I’ve seen at the lake.
Long-legged. Beaks like sword blades — thin, narrow, and deadly. Not cool blue gray, not paper white, but the color of the bubblegum sold at the Donners’ sweetshop. They dive again and again at Maysilee, who’s kneeling on the ground, trying to use a tarp as protection while she vehemently slices at them with her dagger. A couple of dead birds lie on the ground, but they have taken their toll. Blood blossoms from her cheek, her chest, the palm of her hand. Like Ampert’s squirrels, they have no interest in me. Programmed to target Maysilee in a very personal punishment. I
hack away at the mutts with my ax, piling up a collection of rosy wings and legs like cattail stems, but they badly outnumber us.
A bird swoops down at a sharp angle, driving its beak through her throat. As it withdraws, I decapitate it, slicing through the skinny neck. I
realize Maysilee’s beyond recovery when the flock clears out. Falling to my knees beside her, I reach for her sound hand, which grasps mine like a vise. Her wounded one curls up and rests in her nest of necklaces, which lays in a pool of blood. Through the rasping of her breath, she attempts to speak, but the last mutt silenced her voice with its wicked beak. Mine seems silenced
as well, as no words of comfort or hope or apology make it out. I just stare into those burning blue eyes, letting her know she’s not dying alone. She’s with family. She’s with me.
In the last moments, she releases her grip enough to lock her pinkie around mine. Looking, I think, for a final confirmation of the promise we made to each other. I nod so she knows I understand and that I will try my best to bring the Capitol down, although I have never felt so powerless in my entire life.
And then she’s gone to wherever people go when they die.
She hasn’t begged or pleaded; she retained her fury and defiance.
Although for me, a person’s desperation at the end is not a measure of their life, I know it mattered to her. Maysilee leaves the world the way she
wanted, wounded but not bowed. I think about cleaning her up, but this is her final poster, and I won’t tidy it up to make it easier for those monsters in the Capitol to sleep tonight.
The hovercraft slides into view and the cannon booms. I remove her blowgun and one of her necklaces — the copper medallion with the flower — as a reminder of her strength.
Too numb to do much else, I scoot back about ten feet and prop myself against a tree, clutching her token to my chest. When the Capitol realizes I’m going nowhere, they lower the claw. I imagine the shot: my
stricken face, visible through the metal talons as they lift Maysilee’s body up into the sky, leaving me all alone.
If something attacked me right now, I’d let it take me. I know, I know, I just made a deathbed promise to Maysilee to carry on the fight, but I can’t seem to rally. I pat her necklace against my pants to wipe off the blood —
these black clothes just never stop giving — and hook the fancy clasp behind my neck to hang there with its friends. I’ve got my own jewelry collection now, what with District 9’s sunflower, Wyatt’s scrip coin, and Lenore Dove’s warring songbird and snake. Why, I’m almost as decorated as Miss Donner herself.
The blowgun seems loaded with a single dart. I dropped the ball not taking the pouch and poison vial, but at least I’ve got one shot. It makes me
feel nervous keeping a poisonous dart so close to my face, so I attach it to my belt with a bit of vine.
Good-bye, Maysilee Donner, who I loathed, then grudgingly respected, then loved. Not as a sweetheart or even a friend. A sister, I’d said. But what is that exactly? I think about our journey — everything from sniping with her in those early days after the reaping to battling those pink birds. I guess that’s my answer. A sister is someone you fight with and fight for. Tooth and nail.
A parachute floats through the trees and lands before me. I hope it’s not bean and ham hock soup. Pretty sure I couldn’t get that down right now. When I open the attached basket, I find two containers. A basin holds strawberry ice cream, which seems like it ought to have some significance I can’t pinpoint at the moment. The second, a lidded mug, holds steaming black coffee. Maysilee’s beverage of choice. I take a sip, scalding my tongue. Then another.
The ice cream jogs my memory. We’re in the kitchen at the tribute apartment and Proserpina’s been blubbering about her grade. Her sister, Effie, told her a positive attitude’s ninety-seven percent of the battle. And Maysilee . . . Maysilee had said . . .
“I’ll try to keep that in mind in the arena. More ice cream?”
Mags and I tried not to laugh, because Proserpina wasn’t born evil; she just had a lot of unlearning to do. I’m not sure what Mags is trying to impart now. A directive to stay positive? A reminder of Maysilee’s sass?
Just a delicious bowl of ice cream? Maybe all three. I pick up the spoon and take a bite. Tears come, and I let them fall, unchecked, while I empty the basin. It’s okay to cry around Mags.
The sun closes in on the horizon as I slowly sip the cooling coffee, which helps to clear my head. There’s no Maysilee left to protect now. I
guess I should return to the cliff for my final poster. I decide to consolidate my remaining supplies in Maysilee’s backpack. I add a half jug of water and store the potatoes in the basin for safekeeping. As I tuck in the spare handkerchiefs, I notice a slit in the interior wall of her pack. Wiggling my
fingers through the opening, I encounter a bumpy plastic pack. I’d forgotten about the potato-light kit. I guess she didn’t reveal it when we inventoried our supplies since it wasn’t legal. Not that that much worries me now. So much has gone down with blown-up tanks and dead Gamemakers that a few rogue wires and coins hardly seem worth mentioning.
I start thinking about the Gamemakers we encountered. They were none of them very old. The guy with the mop, early twenties tops. Were their deaths painful? Do they leave people behind? Are their parents,
friends, and neighbors weeping for them as ours do when they lose us? Will
their loved ones ever know how they really died, or will an accident be fabricated to conceal the Capitol’s incompetence? Body doubles probably won’t be practical.
As I stow my green pack in the bushes, the oppressive opening notes of the anthem drone from the sky. First there’s Maritte, then Maysilee.
Doesn’t seem random. They’ve been eliminated swiftly, in punishment for killing their keepers. By abstaining, Silka and I have been rewarded with a few more hours of life.
And what about Wellie? I haven’t had time to focus on her much, but she’s out there, too. Maysilee indicated that if neither of us survived, it could work for Wellie to carry on the fight. I think about how poised and
articulate she was at the interview. She’d be a far better, far smarter, far more convincing victor to represent district rights than a cocky, selfish
rascal, even if he had a chance of surviving, which he doesn’t. Is that what my final hours should be devoted to? Guarding Wellie from Silka and the Gamemakers’ mutts? Making sure that crown winds up on her head, not a Career’s? Yes, I’m certain this is what Maysilee would’ve wanted me to do, if she’d known the whole story.
If I’m going to protect Wellie, I’m going to have to find her. Really, at this point, there’s only one way. If I encounter Silka, good. I’ll dart her.
“Wellie!” I holler. “Wellie!”
In the fading rays of the sun, I begin my search, heading south toward the meadow. Seems so lonely here without Maysilee. I didn’t notice the
solitude so much before I had her as a partner, but now the darkness presses in on me, raw and scary.
“Wellie!”
Feels like I’m the only person left alive in the world. Being close to death doesn’t help. I reach for Lenore Dove for solace, knowing she must be keeping vigil at her television set, living through my last hours with me. It’s much worse for her, really. The helplessness. Thinking of her watching me makes me want to be brave, or at least appear to be. “Wellie! Where are you? It’s Haymitch!” I hope Lenore Dove will stay close to Sid when I’m gone, keep teaching him the stars and things, making sure he isn’t —
What was that?
My ears have picked up a strange sound behind me, out of sync with the nighttime background noise of the woods. I stand still, listening hard.
Ring, ring!
There it is again. Not natural. Man-made. Decidedly metal on metal. I know that sound from a summer day long ago. I was still young enough to have free time. A bunch of us — me, Lenore Dove, Blair, Burdock, and a
couple of the McCoy kids — were playing freeze tag in a field. We stumbled upon a Peacekeeper’s bicycle hidden in the bramble bushes by the
road. Sometimes they use them to get around town, deliver messages and such. Looked like someone had dropped it quick and was probably coming back for it. But in the meantime, it was ours.
Bicycles are coveted in District 12. A few of the merchants’ kids in town have them. I remember Maysilee and Merrilee had matching pink ones, and sometimes rode them around the square to the envy of all. But they were a pipe dream for kids in the Seam. For us to find a Peacekeeper’s bike so shiny and unattended was like a litter of kittens rolling smack-dab into a patch of catnip. We swore one another to secrecy, posted guards, and for the next week, every one of us learned to ride. It was a fine machine, well built, smooth, with brakes on the handlebars and a bright silver bell to signal your approach. It disappeared then; probably the Peacekeeper came back to collect it, but it had never been ours to keep.
Ring, ring!
That’s a bicycle bell, beyond a doubt. The one Maysilee wove into Wellie’s token necklace back in the gym. She’s heard my calls and this is her answer. I shut up and follow the bell. It leads back north. I feel like I’m retracing my steps to where Maysilee died.
Ring, ring!
I come to a halt at the base of a large tree. The bell gives a tinny ring from on high. “It’s okay, Wellie,” I say. “I’m here. You can come down.” I
wait, but there’s no response. No crackling of branches or rustling of leaves. Not a whisper from my ally. “Wellie? You there?” The only possible alternative, Silka, does not impress me as someone who could scamper up
as high as I judge that bell to be. And if Silka had gotten close enough to steal Wellie’s token, I’d have seen another dove in the sky. I begin to climb.
Up, up, up I go, so far that I begin to wonder if I have the right tree.
The boughs thin out, and I have to plant my boots against the trunk or risk snapping them off. When I do reach her, she’s so still that I almost miss her. She lies along a slender branch, belly down, like a possum in the moonlight, her bell tucked under her chin, a child-sized knife clutched in one hand.
“Hey, Wellie.”
Her cracked lips move slightly, but no sound comes out. She has the shrunken, glassy-eyed look I know from tough times in the Seam. Another casualty of the Capitol’s weapon of choice: starvation. I need to move her down before she rolls right off that branch and get some food into her. But she’s so fragile, I don’t see how I can manage it, especially at night. I give her a sip of water from the jug, and it spills out the side of her mouth.
There’s no way I’m getting raw potato down her.
I stay with the water. “Try to swallow it, Wellie,” I plead. She manages to get down a few mouthfuls and then drifts off.
The moon slips behind a cloud, leaving us momentarily in darkness, and I hug the trunk for stability until the pale light returns. The air seems to be growing heavier in general; are they prepping a rainstorm? The idea of being trapped up this high in the pitch black while the bark gets slippery
scares me, but I can’t abandon Wellie. I could get some sparks going with my flint striker, but how would I build a fire up here? I fumble around in Maysilee’s pack, looking for something to use as fuel, when I come upon
the potato battery kit. Theoretically, I could make my own light. It probably wouldn’t produce much if it did, but it might be of some comfort.
A faint rumble of thunder prompts me to try. I wedge myself awkwardly between the trunk and a branch and use the backpack as my worktable. Beetee said that a potato shouldn’t be eaten after it was a battery, so I restrict myself to using one, saving the last for Wellie’s breakfast. I cut a potato in half, remove each component from the plastic bag, and strain to replicate Beetee’s demonstration. Wrap the copper coins and zinc nails in wire, leaving a tail, and stick them in the potato halves. This takes a while given the limited light. There’s a bad moment when one of the coins slips through my fingers and escapes to the forest floor. I’m about to give up when I remember Maysilee’s medallion and work it out of the woven cord. After more than a few false starts, I attach the final wire to a tiny light bulb and am rewarded with a dim glow. In most circumstances, it would be
negligible, but in the gloom of the arena, it feels like life itself. Wellie’s eyes flutter open, lock on it, and she gives a little sigh.
The first raindrops patter onto the leaves while I’m looking for
somewhere close by to rig a hammock. The branches don’t feel sturdy enough. Instead, I position a tarp to keep Wellie dry and wrap Maysilee’s blanket around her multiple times. I cut off some strips of tarp and tie them along her legs and midsection, securing her to the branch. She doesn’t seem to notice, just fixates on her light.
No moving her until morning, so I arrange a second tarp and a few straps for myself. It rains cats and dogs for a while, turns misty, and then
the clouds withdraw. I’m dozing off when something catches in the leaves above my head. The parachute brings a cup of warm vanilla pudding and a packet of balls, each wrapped in crinkly festive paper. Chocolate.
Someone in the Capitol still has a heart.
With patience, I coax the pudding into Wellie, bit by bit. And although we lose half to dribbles, the other half makes it into her belly. Then I break a chocolate ball in two with my teeth and slide a piece into her mouth. She gives a little smack of her lips.
I allow myself a ball or two as well. Chocolate’s pricey stuff in the Seam. Definitely for birthdays or special occasions. This stuff’s top-of-the-
line, creamy and sweet and rich. If it’s the last thing I ever eat, I’d be okay with that.
I shake off my tarp to repurpose it as a blanket and have almost dozed off again when I hear Wellie begin to cry. I reach to console her, but she’s fast asleep. The weeping comes from far below at the base of the tree.
Silka? Who else could it be? She isn’t trying to hunt us, just huddled against the trunk. I didn’t peg her for a crier. Of course, I’ve still probably got
tearstains on my cheeks from Maysilee’s passing. I’m sure Silka has plenty to cry about, too. Even if she’s the clear front-runner in the Games, we’ve all of us got enough dead kids to mourn for a lifetime.
I become intensely aware of the three of us, huddled around this tree, the last trio of human heartbeats in the arena. Sad, desperate, but also a rare moment of district unity in the Games. You know what would make it even better? I drop a handful of chocolate balls into the night. A startled sound.
The sobs soften to sniffles. A candy wrapper crackles. Quiet.
Not a bad poster, all in all.
