The Hunger Games Part 2: The Games
Chapter 14
My eyes follow the line of her finger up into the foliage above me. At first, I
have no idea what she’s pointing to, but then, about fifteen feet up, I make out the
vague shape in the dimming light. But of . . . of what? Some sort of animal? It looks
about the size of a raccoon, but it hangs from the bottom of a branch, swaying
ever so slightly. There’s something else. Among the familiar evening sounds of the
woods, my ears register a low hum. Then I know. It’s a wasp nest.
Fear shoots through me, but I have enough sense to keep still. After all, I don’t
know what kind of wasp lives there. It could be the ordinary leave-us-alone-andwe’ll-
leave-you-alone type. But these are the Hunger Games, and ordinary isn’t
the norm. More likely they will be one of the Capitol’s muttations, tracker jackers.
Like the jabberjays, these killer wasps were spawned in a lab and strategically
placed, like land mines, around the districts during the war. Larger than regular
wasps, they have a distinctive solid gold body and a sting that raises a lump the
size of a plum on contact. Most people can’t tolerate more than a few stings. Some
die at once. If you live, the hallucinations brought on by the venom have actually
driven people to madness. And there’s another thing, these wasps will hunt down
anyone who disturbs their nest and attempt to kill them. That’s where the tracker
part of the name comes from.
After the war, the Capitol destroyed all the nests surrounding their city, but the
ones near the districts were left untouched. Another reminder of our weakness, I
suppose, just like the Hunger Games. Another reason to keep inside the fence of
District 12. When Gale and I come across a tracker jacker nest, we immediately
head in the opposite direction.
So is that what hangs above me? I look back to Rue for help, but she’s melted
into her tree.
Given my circumstances, I guess it doesn’t matter what type of wasp nest it is.
I’m wounded and trapped. Darkness has given me a brief reprieve, but by the time
the sun rises, the Careers will have formulated a plan to kill me. There’s no way
they could do otherwise after I’ve made them look so stupid. That nest may be the
sole option I have left. If I can drop it down on them, I may be able to escape. But
I’ll risk my life in the process.
Of course, I’ll never be able to get in close enough to the actual nest to cut it
free. I’ll have to saw off the branch at the trunk and send the whole thing down.
The serrated portion of my knife should be able to manage that. But can my
hands? And will the vibration from the sawing raise the swarm? And what if the
Careers figure out what I’m doing and move their camp? That would defeat the
whole purpose.
I realize that the best chance I’ll have to do the sawing without drawing notice
will be during the anthem. That could begin any time. I drag myself out of my bag,
make sure my knife is secured in my belt, and begin to make my way up the tree.
This in itself is dangerous since the branches are becoming precariously thin even
for me, but I persevere. When I reach the limb that supports the nest, the
humming becomes more distinctive. But it’s still oddly subdued if these are tracker
jackers. It’s the smoke, I think. It’s sedated them. This was the one defense the
rebels found to battle the wasps.
The seal of the Capitol shines above me and the anthem blares out. It’s now or
never, I think, and begin to saw. Blisters burst on my right hand as I awkwardly
drag the knife back and forth. Once I’ve got a groove, the work requires less effort
but is almost more than I can handle. I grit my teeth and saw away occasionally
glancing at the sky to register that there were no deaths today. That’s all right.
The audience will be sated seeing me injured and treed and the pack below me.
But the anthem’s running out and I’m only three quarters of the way through the
wood when the music ends, the sky goes dark, and I’m forced to stop.
Now what? I could probably finish off the job by sense of feel but that may not
be the smartest plan. If the wasps are too groggy, if the nest catches on its way
down, if I try to escape, this could all be a deadly waste of time. Better, I think, to
sneak up here at dawn and send the nest into my enemies.
In the faint light of the Careers’ torches, I inch back down to my fork to find the
best surprise I’ve ever had. Sitting on my sleeping bag is a small plastic pot
attached to a silver parachute. My first gift from a sponsor! Haymitch must have
had it sent in during the anthem. The pot easily fits in the palm of my hand. What
can it be? Not food surely. I unscrew the lid and I know by the scent that it’s
medicine. Cautiously, I probe the surface of the ointment. The throbbing in my
fingertip vanishes.
“Oh, Haymitch,” I whisper. “Thank you.” He has not abandoned me. Not left
me to fend entirely for myself. The cost of this medicine must be astronomical.
Probably not one but many sponsors have contributed to buy this one tiny pot. To
me, it is priceless.
I dip two fingers in the jar and gently spread the balm over my calf. The effect
is almost magical, erasing the pain on contact, leaving a pleasant cooling
sensation behind. This is no herbal concoction that my mother grinds up out of
woodland plants, it’s high-tech medicine brewed up in the Capitol’s labs. When my
calf is treated, I rub a thin layer into my hands. After wrapping the pot in the
parachute, I nestle it safely away in my pack. Now that the pain has eased, it’s all I
can do to reposition myself in my bag before I plunge into sleep.
A bird perched just a few feet from me alerts me that a new day is dawning. In
the gray morning light, I examine my hands. The medicine has transformed all the
angry red patches to a soft baby-skin pink. My leg still feels inflamed, but that burn
was far deeper. I apply another coat of medicine and quietly pack up my gear.
Whatever happens, I’m going to have to move and move fast. I also make myself
eat a cracker and a strip of beef and drink a few cups of water.
Almost nothing stayed in my stomach yesterday, and I’m already starting to
feel the effects of hunger.
Below me, I can see the Career pack and Peeta asleep on the ground. By her
position, leaning up against the trunk of the tree, I’d guess Glimmer was supposed
to be on guard, but fatigue overcame her.
My eyes squint as they try to penetrate the tree next to me, but I can’t make
out Rue. Since she tipped me off, it only seems fair to warn her. Besides, if I’m
going to die today, it’s Rue I want to win. Even if it means a little extra food for my
family, the idea of Peeta being crowned victor is unbearable.
I call Rue’s name in a hushed whisper and the eyes appear, wide and alert, at
once. She points up to the nest again. I hold up my knife and make a sawing
motion. She nods and disappears. There’s a rustling in a nearby tree. Then the
same noise again a bit farther off. I realize she’s leaping from tree to tree. It’s all I
can do not to laugh out loud. Is this what she showed the Gamemakers? I imagine
her flying around the training equipment never touching the floor. She should have
gotten at least a ten.
Rosy streaks are breaking through in the east. I can’t afford to wait any longer.
Compared to the agony of last night’s climb, this one is a cinch. At the tree limb
that holds the nest, I position the knife in the groove and I’m about to draw the
teeth across the wood when I see something moving. There, on the nest. The
bright gold gleam of a tracker jacker lazily making its way across the papery gray
surface. No question, it’s acting a little subdued, but the wasp is up and moving
and that means the others will be out soon as well. Sweat breaks out on the palms
of my hands, beading up through the ointment, and I do my best to pat them dry
on my shirt. If I don’t get through this branch in a matter of seconds, the entire
swarm could emerge and attack me.
There’s no sense in putting it off. I take a deep breath, grip the knife handle
and bear down as hard as I can. Back, forth, back, forth! The tracker jackers begin
to buzz and I hear them coming out. Back, forth, back, forth! A stabbing pain
shoots through my knee and I know one has found me and the others will be
honing in. Back, forth, back, forth. And just as the knife cuts through, I shove the
end of the branch as far away from me as I can. It crashes down through the lower
branches, snagging temporarily on a few but then twisting free until it smashes
with a thud on the ground. The nest bursts open like an egg, and a furious swarm
of tracker jackers takes to the air.
I feel a second sting on the cheek, a third on my neck, and their venom almost
immediately makes me woozy. I cling to the tree with one arm while I rip the
barbed stingers out of my flesh. Fortunately, only these three tracker jackers had
identified me before the nest went down. The rest of the insects have targeted
their enemies on the ground.
It’s mayhem. The Careers have woken to a full-scale tracker jacker attack.
Peeta and a few others have the sense to drop everything and bolt. I can hear
cries of “To the lake! To the lake!” and know they hope to evade the wasps by
taking to the water. It must be close if they think they can outdistance the furious
insects. Glimmer and another girl, the one from District 4, are not so lucky. They
receive multiple stings before they’re even out of my view. Glimmer appears to go
completely mad, shrieking and trying to bat the wasps off with her bow, which is
pointless. She calls to the others for help but, of course, no one returns. The girl
from District 4 staggers out of sight, although I wouldn’t bet on her making it to
the lake. I watch Glimmer fall, twitch hysterically around on the ground for a few
minutes, and then go still.
The nest is nothing but an empty shell. The wasps have vanished in pursuit of
the others. I don’t think they’ll return, but I don’t want to risk it. I scamper down
the tree and hit the ground running in the opposite direction of the lake. The
poison from the stingers makes me wobbly, but I find my way back to my own little
pool and submerge myself in the water, just in case any wasps are still on my trail.
After about five minutes, I drag myself onto the rocks. People have not
exaggerated the effects of the tracker jacker stings. Actually, the one on my knee
is closer to an orange than a plum in size. A foul-smelling green liquid oozes from
the places where I pulled out the stingers.
The swelling. The pain. The ooze. Watching Glimmer twitching to death on the
ground. It’s a lot to handle before the sun has even cleared the horizon. I don’t
want to think about what Glimmer must look like now. Her body disfigured. Her
swollen fingers stiffening around the bow . . .
The bow! Somewhere in my befuddled mind one thought connects to another
and I’m on my feet, teetering through the trees back to Glimmer. The bow. The
arrows. I must get them. I haven’t heard the cannons fire yet, so perhaps Glimmer
is in some sort of coma, her heart still struggling against the wasp venom. But
once it stops and the cannon signals her death, a hovercraft will move in and
retrieve her body, taking the only bow and sheath of arrows I’ve seen out of the
Games for good. And I refuse to let them slip through my fingers again!
I reach Glimmer just as the cannon fires. The tracker jackers have vanished.
This girl, so breathtakingly beautiful in her golden dress the night of the
interviews, is unrecognizable. Her features eradicated, her limbs three times their
normal size. The stinger lumps have begun to explode, spewing putrid green liquid
around her. I have to break several of what used to be her fingers with a stone to
free the bow. The sheath of arrows is pinned under her back. I try to roll over her
body by pulling on one arm, but the flesh disintegrates in my hands and I fall back
on the ground.
Is this real? Or have the hallucinations begun? I squeeze my eyes tight and try
to breathe through my mouth, ordering myself not to become sick. Breakfast must
stay down, it might be days before I can hunt again. A second cannon fires and I’m
guessing the girl from District 4 has just died. I hear the birds fall silent and then
one give the warning call, which means a hovercraft is about to appear. Confused,
I think it’s for Glimmer, although this doesn’t quite make sense because I’m still in
the picture, still fighting for the arrows. I lurch back onto my knees and the trees
around me begin to spin in circles. In the middle of the sky, I spot the hovercraft. I
throw myself over Glimmer’s body as if to protect it but then I see the girl from
District 4 being lifted into the air and vanishing.
“Do this!” I command myself. Clenching my jaw, I dig my hands under
Glimmer’s body, get a hold on what must be her rib cage, and force her onto her
stomach. I can’t help it, I’m hyperventilating now, the whole thing is so
nightmarish and I’m losing my grasp on what’s real. I tug on the silver sheath of
arrows, but it’s caught on something, her shoulder blade, something, and finally
yank it free. I’ve just encircled the sheath with my arms when I hear the footsteps,
several pairs, coming through the underbrush, and I realize the Careers have
come back. They’ve come back to kill me or get their weapons or both.
But it’s too late to run. I pull a slimy arrow from the sheath and try to position it
on the bowstring but instead of one string I see three and the stench from the
stings is so repulsive I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.
I’m helpless as the first hunter crashes through the trees, spear lifted, poised
to throw. The shock on Peeta’s face makes no sense to me. I wait for the blow.
Instead his arm drops to his side.
“What are you still doing here?” he hisses at me. I stare uncomprehendingly as
a trickle of water drips off a sting under his ear. His whole body starts sparkling as
if he’s been dipped in dew. “Are you mad?” He’s prodding me with the shaft of the
spear now. “Get up! Get up!” I rise, but he’s still pushing at me. What? What is
going on? He shoves me away from him hard. “Run!” he screams. “Run!”
Behind him, Cato slashes his way through the brush. He’s sparkling wet, too,
and badly stung under one eye. I catch the gleam of sunlight on his sword and do
as Peeta says. Holding tightly to my bow and arrows, banging into trees that
appear out of nowhere, tripping and falling as I try to keep my balance. Back past
my pool and into unfamiliar woods. The world begins to bend in alarming ways. A
butterfly balloons to the size of a house then shatters into a million stars. Trees
transform to blood and splash down over my boots. Ants begin to crawl out of the
blisters on my hands and I can’t shake them free. They’re climbing up my arms,
my neck. Someone’s screaming, a long high pitched scream that never breaks for
breath. I have a vague idea it might be me. I trip and fall into a small pit lined with
tiny orange bubbles that hum like the tracker jacker nest. Tucking my knees up to
my chin, I wait for death.
Sick and disoriented, I’m able to form only one thought: Peeta Mellark just
saved my life.
Then the ants bore into my eyes and I black out.
Chapter 14
My eyes follow the line of her finger up into the foliage above me. At first, I
have no idea what she’s pointing to, but then, about fifteen feet up, I make out the
vague shape in the dimming light. But of . . . of what? Some sort of animal? It looks
about the size of a raccoon, but it hangs from the bottom of a branch, swaying
ever so slightly. There’s something else. Among the familiar evening sounds of the
woods, my ears register a low hum. Then I know. It’s a wasp nest.
Fear shoots through me, but I have enough sense to keep still. After all, I don’t
know what kind of wasp lives there. It could be the ordinary leave-us-alone-andwe’ll-
leave-you-alone type. But these are the Hunger Games, and ordinary isn’t
the norm. More likely they will be one of the Capitol’s muttations, tracker jackers.
Like the jabberjays, these killer wasps were spawned in a lab and strategically
placed, like land mines, around the districts during the war. Larger than regular
wasps, they have a distinctive solid gold body and a sting that raises a lump the
size of a plum on contact. Most people can’t tolerate more than a few stings. Some
die at once. If you live, the hallucinations brought on by the venom have actually
driven people to madness. And there’s another thing, these wasps will hunt down
anyone who disturbs their nest and attempt to kill them. That’s where the tracker
part of the name comes from.
After the war, the Capitol destroyed all the nests surrounding their city, but the
ones near the districts were left untouched. Another reminder of our weakness, I
suppose, just like the Hunger Games. Another reason to keep inside the fence of
District 12. When Gale and I come across a tracker jacker nest, we immediately
head in the opposite direction.
So is that what hangs above me? I look back to Rue for help, but she’s melted
into her tree.
Given my circumstances, I guess it doesn’t matter what type of wasp nest it is.
I’m wounded and trapped. Darkness has given me a brief reprieve, but by the time
the sun rises, the Careers will have formulated a plan to kill me. There’s no way
they could do otherwise after I’ve made them look so stupid. That nest may be the
sole option I have left. If I can drop it down on them, I may be able to escape. But
I’ll risk my life in the process.
Of course, I’ll never be able to get in close enough to the actual nest to cut it
free. I’ll have to saw off the branch at the trunk and send the whole thing down.
The serrated portion of my knife should be able to manage that. But can my
hands? And will the vibration from the sawing raise the swarm? And what if the
Careers figure out what I’m doing and move their camp? That would defeat the
whole purpose.
I realize that the best chance I’ll have to do the sawing without drawing notice
will be during the anthem. That could begin any time. I drag myself out of my bag,
make sure my knife is secured in my belt, and begin to make my way up the tree.
This in itself is dangerous since the branches are becoming precariously thin even
for me, but I persevere. When I reach the limb that supports the nest, the
humming becomes more distinctive. But it’s still oddly subdued if these are tracker
jackers. It’s the smoke, I think. It’s sedated them. This was the one defense the
rebels found to battle the wasps.
The seal of the Capitol shines above me and the anthem blares out. It’s now or
never, I think, and begin to saw. Blisters burst on my right hand as I awkwardly
drag the knife back and forth. Once I’ve got a groove, the work requires less effort
but is almost more than I can handle. I grit my teeth and saw away occasionally
glancing at the sky to register that there were no deaths today. That’s all right.
The audience will be sated seeing me injured and treed and the pack below me.
But the anthem’s running out and I’m only three quarters of the way through the
wood when the music ends, the sky goes dark, and I’m forced to stop.
Now what? I could probably finish off the job by sense of feel but that may not
be the smartest plan. If the wasps are too groggy, if the nest catches on its way
down, if I try to escape, this could all be a deadly waste of time. Better, I think, to
sneak up here at dawn and send the nest into my enemies.
In the faint light of the Careers’ torches, I inch back down to my fork to find the
best surprise I’ve ever had. Sitting on my sleeping bag is a small plastic pot
attached to a silver parachute. My first gift from a sponsor! Haymitch must have
had it sent in during the anthem. The pot easily fits in the palm of my hand. What
can it be? Not food surely. I unscrew the lid and I know by the scent that it’s
medicine. Cautiously, I probe the surface of the ointment. The throbbing in my
fingertip vanishes.
“Oh, Haymitch,” I whisper. “Thank you.” He has not abandoned me. Not left
me to fend entirely for myself. The cost of this medicine must be astronomical.
Probably not one but many sponsors have contributed to buy this one tiny pot. To
me, it is priceless.
I dip two fingers in the jar and gently spread the balm over my calf. The effect
is almost magical, erasing the pain on contact, leaving a pleasant cooling
sensation behind. This is no herbal concoction that my mother grinds up out of
woodland plants, it’s high-tech medicine brewed up in the Capitol’s labs. When my
calf is treated, I rub a thin layer into my hands. After wrapping the pot in the
parachute, I nestle it safely away in my pack. Now that the pain has eased, it’s all I
can do to reposition myself in my bag before I plunge into sleep.
A bird perched just a few feet from me alerts me that a new day is dawning. In
the gray morning light, I examine my hands. The medicine has transformed all the
angry red patches to a soft baby-skin pink. My leg still feels inflamed, but that burn
was far deeper. I apply another coat of medicine and quietly pack up my gear.
Whatever happens, I’m going to have to move and move fast. I also make myself
eat a cracker and a strip of beef and drink a few cups of water.
Almost nothing stayed in my stomach yesterday, and I’m already starting to
feel the effects of hunger.
Below me, I can see the Career pack and Peeta asleep on the ground. By her
position, leaning up against the trunk of the tree, I’d guess Glimmer was supposed
to be on guard, but fatigue overcame her.
My eyes squint as they try to penetrate the tree next to me, but I can’t make
out Rue. Since she tipped me off, it only seems fair to warn her. Besides, if I’m
going to die today, it’s Rue I want to win. Even if it means a little extra food for my
family, the idea of Peeta being crowned victor is unbearable.
I call Rue’s name in a hushed whisper and the eyes appear, wide and alert, at
once. She points up to the nest again. I hold up my knife and make a sawing
motion. She nods and disappears. There’s a rustling in a nearby tree. Then the
same noise again a bit farther off. I realize she’s leaping from tree to tree. It’s all I
can do not to laugh out loud. Is this what she showed the Gamemakers? I imagine
her flying around the training equipment never touching the floor. She should have
gotten at least a ten.
Rosy streaks are breaking through in the east. I can’t afford to wait any longer.
Compared to the agony of last night’s climb, this one is a cinch. At the tree limb
that holds the nest, I position the knife in the groove and I’m about to draw the
teeth across the wood when I see something moving. There, on the nest. The
bright gold gleam of a tracker jacker lazily making its way across the papery gray
surface. No question, it’s acting a little subdued, but the wasp is up and moving
and that means the others will be out soon as well. Sweat breaks out on the palms
of my hands, beading up through the ointment, and I do my best to pat them dry
on my shirt. If I don’t get through this branch in a matter of seconds, the entire
swarm could emerge and attack me.
There’s no sense in putting it off. I take a deep breath, grip the knife handle
and bear down as hard as I can. Back, forth, back, forth! The tracker jackers begin
to buzz and I hear them coming out. Back, forth, back, forth! A stabbing pain
shoots through my knee and I know one has found me and the others will be
honing in. Back, forth, back, forth. And just as the knife cuts through, I shove the
end of the branch as far away from me as I can. It crashes down through the lower
branches, snagging temporarily on a few but then twisting free until it smashes
with a thud on the ground. The nest bursts open like an egg, and a furious swarm
of tracker jackers takes to the air.
I feel a second sting on the cheek, a third on my neck, and their venom almost
immediately makes me woozy. I cling to the tree with one arm while I rip the
barbed stingers out of my flesh. Fortunately, only these three tracker jackers had
identified me before the nest went down. The rest of the insects have targeted
their enemies on the ground.
It’s mayhem. The Careers have woken to a full-scale tracker jacker attack.
Peeta and a few others have the sense to drop everything and bolt. I can hear
cries of “To the lake! To the lake!” and know they hope to evade the wasps by
taking to the water. It must be close if they think they can outdistance the furious
insects. Glimmer and another girl, the one from District 4, are not so lucky. They
receive multiple stings before they’re even out of my view. Glimmer appears to go
completely mad, shrieking and trying to bat the wasps off with her bow, which is
pointless. She calls to the others for help but, of course, no one returns. The girl
from District 4 staggers out of sight, although I wouldn’t bet on her making it to
the lake. I watch Glimmer fall, twitch hysterically around on the ground for a few
minutes, and then go still.
The nest is nothing but an empty shell. The wasps have vanished in pursuit of
the others. I don’t think they’ll return, but I don’t want to risk it. I scamper down
the tree and hit the ground running in the opposite direction of the lake. The
poison from the stingers makes me wobbly, but I find my way back to my own little
pool and submerge myself in the water, just in case any wasps are still on my trail.
After about five minutes, I drag myself onto the rocks. People have not
exaggerated the effects of the tracker jacker stings. Actually, the one on my knee
is closer to an orange than a plum in size. A foul-smelling green liquid oozes from
the places where I pulled out the stingers.
The swelling. The pain. The ooze. Watching Glimmer twitching to death on the
ground. It’s a lot to handle before the sun has even cleared the horizon. I don’t
want to think about what Glimmer must look like now. Her body disfigured. Her
swollen fingers stiffening around the bow . . .
The bow! Somewhere in my befuddled mind one thought connects to another
and I’m on my feet, teetering through the trees back to Glimmer. The bow. The
arrows. I must get them. I haven’t heard the cannons fire yet, so perhaps Glimmer
is in some sort of coma, her heart still struggling against the wasp venom. But
once it stops and the cannon signals her death, a hovercraft will move in and
retrieve her body, taking the only bow and sheath of arrows I’ve seen out of the
Games for good. And I refuse to let them slip through my fingers again!
I reach Glimmer just as the cannon fires. The tracker jackers have vanished.
This girl, so breathtakingly beautiful in her golden dress the night of the
interviews, is unrecognizable. Her features eradicated, her limbs three times their
normal size. The stinger lumps have begun to explode, spewing putrid green liquid
around her. I have to break several of what used to be her fingers with a stone to
free the bow. The sheath of arrows is pinned under her back. I try to roll over her
body by pulling on one arm, but the flesh disintegrates in my hands and I fall back
on the ground.
Is this real? Or have the hallucinations begun? I squeeze my eyes tight and try
to breathe through my mouth, ordering myself not to become sick. Breakfast must
stay down, it might be days before I can hunt again. A second cannon fires and I’m
guessing the girl from District 4 has just died. I hear the birds fall silent and then
one give the warning call, which means a hovercraft is about to appear. Confused,
I think it’s for Glimmer, although this doesn’t quite make sense because I’m still in
the picture, still fighting for the arrows. I lurch back onto my knees and the trees
around me begin to spin in circles. In the middle of the sky, I spot the hovercraft. I
throw myself over Glimmer’s body as if to protect it but then I see the girl from
District 4 being lifted into the air and vanishing.
“Do this!” I command myself. Clenching my jaw, I dig my hands under
Glimmer’s body, get a hold on what must be her rib cage, and force her onto her
stomach. I can’t help it, I’m hyperventilating now, the whole thing is so
nightmarish and I’m losing my grasp on what’s real. I tug on the silver sheath of
arrows, but it’s caught on something, her shoulder blade, something, and finally
yank it free. I’ve just encircled the sheath with my arms when I hear the footsteps,
several pairs, coming through the underbrush, and I realize the Careers have
come back. They’ve come back to kill me or get their weapons or both.
But it’s too late to run. I pull a slimy arrow from the sheath and try to position it
on the bowstring but instead of one string I see three and the stench from the
stings is so repulsive I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.
I’m helpless as the first hunter crashes through the trees, spear lifted, poised
to throw. The shock on Peeta’s face makes no sense to me. I wait for the blow.
Instead his arm drops to his side.
“What are you still doing here?” he hisses at me. I stare uncomprehendingly as
a trickle of water drips off a sting under his ear. His whole body starts sparkling as
if he’s been dipped in dew. “Are you mad?” He’s prodding me with the shaft of the
spear now. “Get up! Get up!” I rise, but he’s still pushing at me. What? What is
going on? He shoves me away from him hard. “Run!” he screams. “Run!”
Behind him, Cato slashes his way through the brush. He’s sparkling wet, too,
and badly stung under one eye. I catch the gleam of sunlight on his sword and do
as Peeta says. Holding tightly to my bow and arrows, banging into trees that
appear out of nowhere, tripping and falling as I try to keep my balance. Back past
my pool and into unfamiliar woods. The world begins to bend in alarming ways. A
butterfly balloons to the size of a house then shatters into a million stars. Trees
transform to blood and splash down over my boots. Ants begin to crawl out of the
blisters on my hands and I can’t shake them free. They’re climbing up my arms,
my neck. Someone’s screaming, a long high pitched scream that never breaks for
breath. I have a vague idea it might be me. I trip and fall into a small pit lined with
tiny orange bubbles that hum like the tracker jacker nest. Tucking my knees up to
my chin, I wait for death.
Sick and disoriented, I’m able to form only one thought: Peeta Mellark just
saved my life.
Then the ants bore into my eyes and I black out.
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