The Hunger Games Chapter 27

The Hunger Games Part 3: The Victor

Chapter 27

The anthem booms in my ears, and then I hear Caesar Flickerman greeting the
audience. Does he know how crucial it is to get every word right from now on? He
must. He will want to help us. The crowd breaks into applause as the prep teams
are presented. I imagine Flavius, Venia, and Octavia bouncing around and taking
ridiculous, bobbing bows. It’s a safe bet they’re clueless. Then Effie’s introduced.
How long she’s waited for this moment. I hope she’s able to enjoy it because as
misguided as Effie can be, she has a very keen instinct about certain things and
must at least suspect we’re in trouble. Portia and Cinna receive huge cheers, of
course, they’ve been brilliant, had a dazzling debut. I now understand Cinna’s
choice of dress for me for tonight. I’ll need to look as girlish and innocent as
possible. Haymitch’s appearance brings a round of stomping that goes on at least
five minutes. Well, he’s accomplished a first. Keeping not only one but two tributes
alive. What if he hadn’t warned me in time? Would I have acted differently?
Flaunted the moment with the berries in the Capitol’s face? No, I don’t think so.

But I could easily have been a lot less convincing than I need to be now. Right
now. Because I can feel the plate lifting me up to the stage.

Blinding lights. The deafening roar rattles the metal under my feet. Then
there’s Peeta just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I
can hardly recognize him. But his smile is the same whether in mud or in the
Capitol and when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms.

He staggers back, almost losing his balance, and that’s when I realize the slim,
metal contraption in his hand is some kind of cane. He rights himself and we just
cling to each other while the audience goes insane. He’s kissing me and all the
time I’m thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger we’re in? After
about ten minutes of this, Caesar Flickerman taps on his shoulder to continue the
show, and Peeta just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. The audience
goes berserk. Whether he knows or not, Peeta is, as usual, playing the crowd
exactly right.

Finally, Haymitch interrupts us and gives us a good-natured shove toward the
victor’s chair. Usually, this is a single, ornate chair from which the winning tribute
watches a film of the highlights of the Games, but since there are two of us, the
Gamemakers have provided a plush red velvet couch. A small one, my mother
would call it a love seat, I think. I sit so close to Peeta that I’m practically on his
lap, but one look from Haymitch tells me it isn’t enough. Kicking off my sandals, I
tuck my feet to the side and lean my head against Peeta’s shoulder. His arm goes
around me automatically, and I feel like I’m back in the cave, curled up against
him, trying to keep warm. His shirt is made of the same yellow material as my
dress, but Portia’s put him in long black pants. No sandals, either, but a pair of
sturdy black boots he keeps solidly planted on the stage. I wish Cinna had given
me a similar outfit, I feel so vulnerable in this flimsy dress. But I guess that was the
point.

Caesar Flickerman makes a few more jokes, and then it’s time for the show.
This will last exactly three hours and is required viewing for all of Panem. As the
lights dim and the seal appears on the screen, I realize I’m unprepared for this. I
do not want to watch my twenty-two fellow tributes die. I saw enough of them die
the first time. My heart starts pounding and I have a strong impulse to run. How
have the other victors faced this alone? During the highlights, they periodically
show the winner’s reaction up on a box in the corner of the screen. I think back to
earlier years . . . some are triumphant, pumping their fists in the air, beating their
chests. Most just seem stunned. All I know is that the only thing keeping me on this
love seat is Peeta — his arm around my shoulder, his other hand claimed by both
of mine. Of course, the previous victors didn’t have the Capitol looking for a way
to destroy them.

Condensing several weeks into three hours is quite a feat, especially when you
consider how many cameras were going at once. Whoever puts together the
highlights has to choose what sort of story to tell. This year, for the first time, they
tell a love story. I know Peeta and I won, but a disproportionate amount of time is
spent on us, right from the beginning. I’m glad though, because it supports the
whole crazy-in-love thing that’s my defense for defying the Capitol, plus it means
we won’t have as much time to linger over the deaths.

The first half hour or so focuses on the pre-arena events, the reaping, the
chariot ride through the Capitol, our training scores, and our interviews. There’s
this sort of upbeat soundtrack playing under it that makes it twice as awful
because, of course, almost everyone on-screen is dead.

Once we’re in the arena, there’s detailed coverage of the bloodbath and then
the filmmakers basically alternate between shots of tributes dying and shots of us.
Mostly Peeta really, there’s no question he’s carrying this romance thing on his
shoulders. Now I see what the audience saw, how he misled the Careers about me,
stayed awake the entire night under the tracker jacker tree, fought Cato to let me
escape and even while he lay in that mud bank, whispered my name in his sleep. I
seem heartless in comparison — dodging fireballs, dropping nests, and blowing up
supplies — until I go hunting for Rue. They play her death in full, the spearing, my
failed rescue attempt, my arrow through the boy from District 1’s throat, Rue
drawing her last breath in my arms. And the song. I get to sing every note of the
song. Something inside me shuts down and I’m too numb to feel anything. It’s like
watching complete strangers in another Hunger Games. But I do notice they omit
the part where I covered her in flowers.

Right. Because even that smacks of rebellion.

Things pick up for me once they’ve announced two tributes from the same
district can live and I shout out Peeta’s name and then clap my hands over my
mouth. If I’ve seemed indifferent to him earlier, I make up for it now, by finding
him, nursing him back to health, going to the feast for the medicine, and being
very free with my kisses. Objectively, I can see the mutts and Cato’s death are as
gruesome as ever, but again, I feel it happens to people I have never met.

And then comes the moment with the berries. I can hear the audience hushing
one another, not wanting to miss anything. A wave of gratitude to the filmmakers
sweeps over me when they end not with the announcement of our victory, but with
me pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Peeta’s name as they
try to revive him.

In terms of survival, it’s my best moment all night.

The anthem’s playing yet again and we rise as President Snow himself takes
the stage followed by a little girl carrying a cushion that holds the crown. There’s
just one crown, though, and you can hear the crowd’s confusion — whose head
will he place it on? — until President Snow gives it a twist and it separates into two
halves. He places the first around Peeta’s brow with a smile. He’s still smiling
when he settles the second on my head, but his eyes, just inches from mine, are
as unforgiving as a snake’s.

That’s when I know that even though both of us would have eaten the berries, I
am to blame for having the idea. I’m the instigator. I’m the one to be punished.
Much bowing and cheering follows. My arm is about to fall off from waving
when Caesar Flickerman finally bids the audience good night, reminding them to
tune in tomorrow for the final interviews. As if they have a choice.

Peeta and I are whisked to the president’s mansion for the Victory Banquet,
where we have very little time to eat as Capitol officials and particularly generous
sponsors elbow one another out of the way as they try to get their picture with us.
Face after beaming face flashes by, becoming increasingly intoxicated as the
evening wears on. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of Haymitch, which is
reassuring, or President Snow, which is terrifying, but I keep laughing and thanking
people and smiling as my picture is taken. The one thing I never do is let go of
Peeta’s hand.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon when we straggle back to the twelfth
floor of the Training Center. I think now I’ll finally get a word alone with Peeta, but
Haymitch sends him off with Portia to get something fitted for the interview and
personally escorts me to my door.

“Why can’t I talk to him?” I ask.

“Plenty of time for talk when we get home,” says Haymitch. “Go to bed, you’re
on air at two.”

Despite Haymitch’s running interference, I’m determined to see Peeta
privately. After I toss and turn for a few hours, I slip into the hall. My first thought
is to check the roof, but it’s empty. Even the city streets far below are deserted
after the celebration last night. I go back to bed for a while and then decide to go
directly to his room, but when I try to turn the knob, I find my own bedroom door
has been locked from the outside. I suspect Haymitch initially, but then there’s a
more insidious fear that the Capitol may by monitoring and confining me. I’ve been
unable to escape since the Hunger Games began, but this feels different, much
more personal. This feels like I’ve been imprisoned for a crime and I’m awaiting
sentencing. I quickly get back in bed and pretend to sleep until Effie Trinket comes
to alert me to the start of another “big, big, big day!”

I have about five minutes to eat a bowl of hot grain and stew before the prep
team descends. All I have to say is, “The crowd loved you!” and it’s unnecessary
to speak for the next couple of hours. When Cinna comes in, he shoos them out
and dresses me in a white, gauzy dress and pink shoes. Then he personally adjusts
my makeup until I seem to radiate a soft, rosy glow. We make idle chitchat, but
I’m afraid to ask him anything of real importance because after the incident with
the door, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched constantly.

The interview takes place right down the hall in the sitting room. A space has
been cleared and the love seat has been moved in and surrounded by vases of red
and pink roses. There are only a handful of cameras to record the event. No live
audience at least.

Caesar Flickerman gives me a warm hug when I. come in. “Congratulations,
Katniss. How are you faring?”

“Fine. Nervous about the interview,” I say.

“Don’t be. We’re going to have a fabulous time,” he says, giving my cheek a
reassuring pat.

“I’m not good at talking about myself,” I say.

“Nothing you say will be wrong,” he says.

And I think, Oh, Caesar, if only that were true. But actually, President Snow
may be arranging some sort of “accident” for me as we speak.

Then Peeta’s there looking handsome in red and white, pulling me off to the
side. “I hardly get to see you. Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart.”

Haymitch is actually bent on keeping us alive, but there are too many ears
listening, so I just say, “Yes, he’s gotten very responsible lately.”

“Well, there’s just this and we go home. Then he can’t watch us all the time,”
says Peeta.

I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there’s no time to analyze why,
because they’re ready for us. We sit somewhat formally on the love seat, but
Caesar says, “Oh, go ahead and curl up next to him if you want. It looked very
sweet.” So I tuck my feet up and Peeta pulls me in close to him.

Someone counts backward and just like that, we’re being broadcast live to the
entire country. Caesar Flickerman is wonderful, teasing, joking, getting choked up
when the occasion presents itself. He and Peeta already have the rapport they
established that night of the first interview, that easy banter, so I just smile a lot
and try to speak as little as possible. I mean, I have to talk some, but as soon as I
can I redirect the conversation back to Peeta.

Eventually though, Caesar begins to pose questions that insist on fuller
answers. “Well, Peeta, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first
sight for you from what, age five?” Caesar says.

“From the moment I laid eyes on her,” says Peeta.

“But, Katniss, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience
was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love with him?”
asks Caesar.

“Oh, that’s a hard one . . .” I give a faint, breathy laugh and look down at my
hands. Help.

“Well, I know when it hit me. The night when you shouted out his name from
that tree,” says Caesar.

Thank you, Caesar! I think, and then go with his idea. “Yes, I guess that was it.
I mean, until that point, I just tried not to think about what my feelings might be,
honestly, because it was so confusing and it only made things worse if I actually
cared about him. But then, in the tree, everything changed,” I say.

“Why do you think that was?” urges Caesar.

“Maybe . . . because for the first time . . . there was a chance I could keep
him,” I say.

Behind a cameraman, I see Haymitch give a sort of huff with relief and I know
I’ve said the right thing. Caesar pulls out a handkerchief and has to take a moment
because he’s so moved. I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he
asks, “So now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?”

I turn in to him. “Put you somewhere you can’t get hurt.” And when he kisses
me, people in the room actually sigh.

For Caesar, this is a natural place to segue into all the ways we did get hurt in
the arena, from burns, to stings, to wounds. But it’s not until we get around to the
mutts that I forget I’m on camera. When Caesar asks Peeta how his “new leg” is
working out.

“New leg?” I say, and I can’t help reaching out and pull ing up the bottom of
Peeta’s pants. “Oh, no,” I whisper, taking in the metal-and-plastic device that has
replaced his flesh.

“No one told you?” asks Caesar gently. I shake my head.

“I haven’t had the chance,” says Peeta with a slight shrug.

“It’s my fault,” I say. “Because I used that tourniquet.”

“Yes, it’s your fault I’m alive,” says Peeta.

“He’s right,” says Caesar. “He’d have bled to death for sure without it.”
I guess this is true, but I can’t help feeling upset about it to the extent that I’m
afraid I might cry and then I remember everyone in the country is watching me so I
just bury my face in Peeta’s shirt. It takes them a couple of minutes to coax me
back out because it’s better in the shirt, where no one can see me, and when I do
come out, Caesar backs off questioning me so I can recover. In fact, he pretty
much leaves me alone until the berries come up.

“Katniss, I know you’ve had a shock, but I’ve got to ask. The moment when you
pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind . . . hm?” he says.

I take a long pause before I answer, trying to collect my thoughts. This is the
crucial moment where I either challenged the Capitol or went so crazy at the idea
of losing Peeta that I can’t be held responsible for my actions. It seems to call for a
big, dramatic speech, but all I get out is one almost inaudible sentence. “I don’t
know, I just . . . couldn’t bear the thought of . . . being without him.”

“Peeta? Anything to add?” asks Caesar.

“No. I think that goes for both of us,” he says.

Caesar signs off and it’s over. Everyone’s laughing and crying and hugging, but
I’m still not sure until I reach Haymitch. “Okay?” I whisper.

“Perfect,” he answers.

I go back to my room to collect a few things and find there’s nothing to take
but the mockingjay pin Madge gave me. Someone returned it to my room after the
Games. They drive us through the streets in a car with blackened windows, and
the train’s waiting for us. We barely have time to say good-bye to Cinna and
Portia, although we’ll see them in a few months, when we tour the districts for a
round of victory ceremonies. It’s the Capitol’s way of reminding people that the
Hunger Games never really go away. We’ll be given a lot of useless plaques, and
everyone will have to pretend they love us.

The train begins moving and we’re plunged into night until we clear the tunnel
and I take my first free breath since the reaping. Effie is accompanying us back
and Haymitch, too, of course. We eat an enormous dinner and settle into silence in
front of the television to watch a replay of the interview. With the Capitol growing
farther away every second, I begin to think of home. Of Prim and my mother. Of
Gale. I excuse myself to change out of my dress and into a plain shirt and pants.
As I slowly, thoroughly wash the makeup from my face and put my hair in its braid,
I begin transforming back into myself. Katniss Everdeen. A girl who lives in the
Seam. Hunts in the woods. Trades in the Hob. I stare in the mirror as I try to
remember who I am and who I am not. By the time I join the others, the pressure
of Peeta’s arm around my shoulders feels alien.

When the train makes a brief stop for fuel, we’re allowed to go outside for
some fresh air. There’s no longer any need to guard us. Peeta and I walk down
along the track, hand in hand, and I can’t find anything to say now that we’re
alone. He stops to gather a bunch of wildflowers for me. When he presents them, I
work hard to look pleased. Because he can’t know that the pink-and-white flowers
are the tops of wild onions and only remind me of the hours I’ve spent gathering
them with Gale.

Gale. The idea of seeing Gale in a matter of hours makes my stomach churn.
But why? I can’t quite frame it in my mind. I only know that I feel like I’ve been
lying to someone who trusts me. Or more accurately, to two people. I’ve been
getting away with it up to this point because of the Games. But there will be no
Games to hide behind back home.

“What’s wrong?” Peeta asks.

“Nothing,” I answer. We continue walking, past the end of the train, out where
even I’m fairly sure there are no cameras hidden in the scrubby bushes along the
track. Still no words come.

Haymitch startles me when he lays a hand on my back. Even now, in the
middle of nowhere, he keeps his voice down. “Great job, you two. Just keep it up in
the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay.” I watch him head
back to the train, avoiding Peeta’s eyes.

“What’s he mean?” Peeta asks me.

“It’s the Capitol. They didn’t like our stunt with the berries,” I blurt out.
“What? What are you talking about?” he says.

“It seemed too rebellious. So, Haymitch has been coaching me through the last
few days. So I didn’t make it worse,” I say.

“Coaching you? But not me,” says Peeta.

“He knew you were smart enough to get it right,” I say.

“I didn’t know there was anything to get right,” says Peeta. “So, what you’re
saying is, these last few days and then I guess . . . back in the arena . . . that was
just some strategy you two worked out.”

“No. I mean, I couldn’t even talk to him in the arena, could I?” I stammer.
“But you knew what he wanted you to do, didn’t you?” says Peeta. I bite my lip.
“Katniss?” He drops my hand and I take a step, as if to catch my balance.
“It was all for the Games,” Peeta says. “How you acted.”

“Not all of it,” I say, tightly holding onto my flowers.

“Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what’s going to
be left when we get home?” he says.

“I don’t know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get,” I
say. He waits, for further explanation, but none’s forthcoming.

“Well, let me know when you work it out,” he says, and the pain in his voice is
palpable.

I know my ears are healed because, even with the rumble of the engine, I can
hear every step he takes back to the train. By the time I’ve climbed aboard, Peeta
has disap peared into his room for the night. I don’t see him the next morning,
either. In fact, the next time he turns up, we’re pulling into District 12. He gives
me a nod, his face expressionless.

I want to tell him that he’s not being fair. That we were strangers. That I did
what it took to stay alive, to keep us both alive in the arena. That I can’t explain
how things are with Gale because I don’t know myself. That it’s no good loving me
because I’m never going to get married anyway and he’d just end up hating me
later instead of sooner. That if I do have feelings for him, it doesn’t matter
because I’ll never be able to afford the kind of love that leads to a family, to
children. And how can he? How can he after what we’ve just been through?
I also want to tell him how much I already miss him. But that wouldn’t be fair
on my part.

So we just stand there silently, watching our grimy little station rise up around
us. Through the window, I can see the platform’s thick with cameras. Everyone will
be eagerly watching our homecoming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure.

“One more time? For the audience?” he says. His voice isn’t angry. It’s hollow,
which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me.

I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the
moment when I will finally have to let go.

END OF BOOK ONE

Categories: The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games Chapter 26

The Hunger Games Part 3: The Victor

Chapter 26

I spew the berries from my mouth, wiping my tongue with the end of my shirt
to make sure no juice remains. Peeta pulls me to the lake where we both flush our
mouths with water and then collapse into each other’s arms.

“You didn’t swallow any?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “You?”

“Guess I’d be dead by now if I did,” I say. I can see his lips moving in reply, but
I can’t hear him over the roar of the crowd in the Capitol that they’re playing live
over the speakers.

The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there’s no
way I’m letting go of Peeta. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we
each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in
place, and this time I’m glad because I’m not really sure Peeta can hang on for the
whole ride. And since my eyes were looking down, I can see that while our
muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Peeta’s
leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he
slumps to the floor unconscious.

My fingers are still gripping the back of his jacket so tightly that when they take
him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of black fabric. Doctors in sterile white,
masked and gloved, already prepped to operate, go into action. Peeta’s so pale
and still on a silver table, tubes and wires springing out of him every which way,
and for a moment I forget we’re out of the Games and I see the doctors as just one
more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him. Petrified, I lunge for
him, but I’m caught and thrust back into another room, and a glass door seals
between us. I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me
except for some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a
beverage.

I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring
uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange
juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand
with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it
carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty.

Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Peeta, their brows
creased in concentration. I see the flow of liquids, pumping through the tubes,
watch a wall of dials and lights that mean nothing to me. I’m not sure, but I think
his heart stops twice.

It’s like being home again, when they bring in the hopelessly mangled person
from the mine explosion, or the woman in her third day of labor, or the famished
child struggling against pneumonia and my mother and Prim, they wear that same
look on their faces. Now is the time to run away to the woods, to hide in the trees
until the patient is long gone and in another part of the Seam the hammers make
the coffin. But I’m held here both by the hovercraft walls and the same force that
holds the loved ones of the dying. How often I’ve seen them, ringed around our
kitchen table and I thought, Why don’t they leave? Why do they stay to watch?
And now I know. It’s because you have no choice.

I startle when I catch someone staring at me from only a few inches away and
then realize it’s my own face reflecting back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollow
cheeks, my hair in a tangled mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is
keeping a safe distance from me.

The next thing I know we’ve landed back on the roof of the Training Center and
they’re taking Peeta but leaving me behind the door. I start hurling myself against
the glass, shrieking and I think I just catch a glimpse of pink hair — it must be
Effie, it has to be Effie coming to my rescue — when the needle jabs me from
behind.

When I wake, I’m afraid to move at first. The entire ceiling glows with a soft
yellow light allowing me to see that I’m in a room containing just my bed. No
doors, no windows are visible. The air smells of something sharp and antiseptic.
My right arm has several tubes that extend into the wall behind me. I’m naked, but
the bedclothes arc soothing against my skin. I tentatively lift my left hand above
the cover. Not only has it been scrubbed clean, the nails are filed in perfect ovals,
the scars from the burns are less prominent. I touch my cheek, my lips, the
puckered scar above my eyebrow, and am just running my fingers through my
silken hair when I freeze. Apprehensively I ruffle the hair by my left ear. No, it
wasn’t an illusion. I can hear again.

I try and sit up, but some sort of wide restraining band around my waist keeps
me from rising more than a few inches. The physical confinement makes me panic
and I’m trying to pull myself up and wriggle my hips through the band when a
portion of the wall slides open and in steps the redheaded Avox girl carrying a
tray. The sight of her calms me and I stop trying to escape. I want to ask her a
million questions, but I’m afraid any familiarity would cause her harm. Obviously I
am being closely monitored. She sets the tray across my thighs and presses
something that raises me to a sitting position. While she adjusts my pillows, I risk
one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing
will seem secretive. “Did Peeta make it?” She gives me a nod, and as she slips a
spoon into my hand, I feel the pressure of friendship.

I guess she did not wish me dead after all. And Peeta has made it. Of course,
he did. With all their expensive equipment here. Still, I hadn’t been sure until now.
As the Avox leaves, the door closes noiselessly after her and I turn hungrily to
the tray. A bowl of clear broth, a small serving of applesauce, and a glass of water.

This is it? I think grouchily. Shouldn’t my homecoming dinner be a little more
spectacular? But I find it’s an effort to finish the spare meal before me. My
stomach seems to have shrunk to the size of a chestnut, and I have to wonder how
long I’ve been out because I had no trouble eating a fairly sizable breakfast that
last morning in the arena. There’s usually a lag of a few days between the end of
the competition and the presentation of the victor so that they can put the
starving, wounded, mess of a person back together again. Somewhere, Cinna and
Portia will be creating our wardrobes for the public appearances. Haymitch and
Effie will be arranging the banquet for our sponsors, reviewing the questions for
our final interviews. Back home, District 12 is probably in chaos as they try and
organize the homecoming celebrations for Peeta and me, given that the last one
was close to thirty years ago.

Home! Prim and my mother! Gale! Even the thought of Prim’s scruffy old cat
makes me smile. Soon I will be home!

I want to get out of this bed. To see Peeta and Cinna, to find out more about
what’s been going on. And why shouldn’t I? I feel fine. But as I start to work my
way out of the band, I feel a cold liquid seeping into my vein from one of the tubes
and almost immediately lose consciousness.

This happens on and off for an indeterminate amount of time. My waking,
eating, and, even though I resist the impulse to try and escape the bed, being
knocked out again. I seem to be in a strange, continual twilight. Only a few things
register. The redheaded Avox girl has not returned since the feeding, my scars are
disappearing, and do I imagine it? Or do I hear a man’s voice yelling? Not in the
Capitol accent, but in the rougher cadences of home. And I can’t help having a
vague, comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me.

Then finally, the time arrives when I come to and there’s nothing plugged into
my right arm. The restraint around my middle has been removed and I am free to
move about. I start to sit up but am arrested by the sight of my hands. The skin’s
perfection, smooth and glowing. Not only are the scars from the arena gone, but
those accumulated over years of hunting have vanished without a trace. My
forehead feels like satin, and when I try to find the burn on my calf, there’s
nothing.

I slip my legs out of bed, nervous about how they will bear my weight and find
them strong and steady. Lying at the foot of the bed is an outfit that makes me
flinch. It’s what all of us tributes wore in the arena. I stare at it as if it had teeth
until I remember that, of course, this is what I will wear to greet my team.

I’m dressed in less than a minute and fidgeting in front of the wall where I know
there’s a door even if I can’t see it when suddenly it slides open. I step into a wide,
deserted hall that appears to have no other doors on it. But it must. And behind
one of them must be Peeta. Now that I’m conscious and moving, I’m growing more
and more anxious about him. He must be all right or the Avox girl wouldn’t have
said so. But I need to see him for myself.

“Peeta!” I call out, since there’s no one to ask. I hear my name in response,
but it’s not his voice. It’s a voice that provokes first irritation and then eagerness.
Effie.

I turn and see them all waiting in a big chamber at the end of the hall — Effie,
Haymitch, and Cinna. My feet take off without hesitation. Maybe a victor should
show more restraint, more superiority, especially when she knows this will be on
tape, but I don’t care. I run for them and surprise even myself when I launch into
Haymitch’s arms first. When he whispers in my ear, “Nice job, sweetheart,” it
doesn’t sound sarcastic. Effie’s somewhat teary and keeps patting my hair and
talking about how she told everyone we were pearls. Cinna just hugs me tight and
doesn’t say anything. Then I notice Portia is absent and get a bad feeling.

“Where’s Portia? Is she with Peeta? He is all right, isn’t he? I mean, he’s alive?”
I blurt out.

“He’s fine. Only they want to do your reunion live on air at the ceremony,”
says Haymitch.

“Oh. That’s all,” I say. The awful moment of thinking Peeta’s dead again
passes. “I guess I’d want to see that myself.”

“Go on with Cinna. He has to get you ready,” says Haymitch.

It’s a relief to be alone with Cinna, to feel his protective arm around my
shoulders as he guides me away from the cameras, down a few passages and to
an elevator that leads to the lobby of the Training Center. The hospital then is far
underground, even beneath the gym where the tributes practiced tying knots and
throwing spears. The windows of the lobby are darkened, and a handful of guards
stand on duty. No one else is there to see us cross to the tribute elevator. Our
footsteps echo in the emptiness. And when we ride up to the twelfth floor, the
faces of all the tributes who will never return flash across my mind and there’s a
heavy, tight place in my chest.

When the elevator doors open, Venia, Flavius, and Octavia engulf me, talking
so quickly and ecstatically I can’t make out their words. The sentiment is clear
though. They are truly thrilled to see me and I’m happy to see them, too, although
not like I was to see Cinna. It’s more in the way one might be glad to see an
affectionate trio of pets at the end of a particularly difficult day.

They sweep me into the dining room and I get a real meal — roast beef and
peas and soft rolls — although my portions are still being strictly controlled.
Because when I ask for seconds, I’m refused.

“No, no, no. They don’t want it all coming back up on the stage,” says Octavia,
but she secretly slips me an extra roll under the table to let me know she’s on my
side.

We go back to my room and Cinna disappears for a while as the prep team
gets me ready.

“Oh, they did a full body polish on you,” says Flavius enviously. “Not a flaw left
on your skin.”

But when I look at my naked body in the mirror, all I can see is how skinny I
am. I mean, I’m sure I was worse when I came out of the arena, but I can easily
count my ribs.

They take care of the shower settings for me, and they go to work on my hair,
nails, and makeup when I’m done. They chatter so continuously that I barely have
to reply, which is good, since I don’t feel very talkative. It’s funny, because even
though they’re rattling on about the Games, it’s all about where they were or what
they were doing or how they felt when a specific event occurred. “I was still in
bed!” “I had just had my eyebrows dyed!” “I swear I nearly fainted!” Everything is
about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena.

We don’t wallow around in the Games this way in District 12. We grit our teeth
and watch because we must and try to get back to business as soon as possible
when they’re over. To keep from hating the prep team, I effectively tune out most
of what they’re saying.

Cinna comes in with what appears to be an unassuming yellow dress across his
arms.

“Have you given up the whole ‘girl on fire’ thing?” I ask.

“You tell me,” he says, and slips it over my head. I immediately notice the
padding over my breasts, adding curves that hunger has stolen from my body. My
hands go to my chest and I frown.

“I know,” says Cinna before I can object. “But the Gamemakers wanted to alter
you surgically. Haymitch had a huge fight with them over it. This was the
compromise.” He stops me before I can look at my reflection. “Wait, don’t forget
the shoes.” Venia helps me into a pair of flat leather sandals and I turn to the
mirror.

I am still the “girl on fire.” The sheer fabric softly glows. Even the slight
movement in the air sends a ripple up my body. By comparison, the chariot
costume seems garish, the interview dress too contrived. In this dress, I give the
illusion of wearing candlelight.

“What do you think?” asks Cinna.

“I think it’s the best yet,” I say. When I manage to pull my eyes away from the
flickering fabric, I’m in for something of a shock. My hair’s loose, held back by a
simple hairband. The makeup rounds and fills out the sharp angles of my face. A
clear polish coats my nails. The sleeveless dress is gathered at my ribs, not my
waist, largely eliminating any help the padding would have given my figure. The
hem falls just to my knees. Without heels, you can see my true stature. I look, very
simply, like a girl. A young one. Fourteen at the most. Innocent. Harmless. Yes, it
is shocking that Cinna has pulled this off when you remember I’ve just won the
Games.

This is a very calculated look. Nothing Cinna designs is arbitrary. I bite my lip
trying to figure out his motivation.

“I thought it’d be something more . . . sophisticated-looking,” I say.

“I thought Peeta would like this better,” he answers carefully.

Peeta? No, it’s not about Peeta. It’s about the Capitol and the Gamemakers and
the audience. Although I do not yet understand Cinna’s design, it’s a reminder the
Games are not quite finished. And beneath his benign reply, I sense a warning. Of
something he can’t even mention in front of his own team.

We take the elevator to the level where we trained. It’s customary for the
victor and his or her support team to rise from beneath the stage. First the prep
team, followed by the escort, the stylist, the mentor, and finally the victor. Only
this year, with two victors who share both an escort and a mentor, the whole thing
has had to be rethought. I find myself in a poorly lit area under the stage. A brandnew
metal plate has been installed to transport me upward. You can still see small
piles of sawdust, smell fresh paint. Cinna and the prep team peel off to change
into their own costumes and take their positions, leaving me alone. In the gloom, I
see a makeshift wall about ten yards away and assume Peeta’s behind it.

The rumbling of the crowd is loud, so I don’t notice Haymitch until he touches
my shoulder. I spring away, startled, still half in the arena, I guess.

“Easy, just me. Let’s have a look at you,” Haymitch says. I hold out my arms
and turn once. “Good enough.”

It’s not much of a compliment. “But what?” I say.

Haymitch’s eyes shift around my musty holding space, and he seems to make
a decision. “But nothing. How about a hug for luck?”

Okay, that’s an odd request from Haymitch but, after all, we are victors. Maybe
a hug for luck is in order. Only, when I put my arms around his neck, I find myself
trapped in his embrace. He begins talking, very fast, very quietly in my ear, my
hair concealing his lips.

“Listen up. You’re in trouble. Word is the Capitol’s furious about you showing
them up in the arena. The one thing they can’t stand is being laughed at and
they’re the joke of Panem,” says Haymitch.

I feel dread coursing through me now, but I laugh as though Haymitch is saying
something completely delightful because nothing is covering my mouth. “So,
what?”

“Your only defense can be you were so madly in love you weren’t responsible
for your actions.” Haymitch pulls back and adjusts my hairband. “Got it,
sweetheart?” He could be talking about anything now.

“Got it,” I say. “Did you tell Peeta this?”

“Don’t have to,” says Haymitch. “He’s already there.”

“But you think I’m not?” I say, taking the opportunity to straighten a bright red
bow tie Cinna must have wrestled him into.

“Since when does it matter what I think?” says Haymitch. “Better take our
places.” He leads me to the metal circle. “This is your night, sweetheart. Enjoy it.”

He kisses me on the forehead and disappears into the gloom.

I tug on my skirt, willing it to be longer, wanting it to cover the knocking in my
knees. Then I realize it’s pointless. My whole body’s shaking like a leaf. Hopefully,
it will be put down to excitement. After all, it’s my night.

The damp, moldy smell beneath the stage threatens to choke me. A cold,
clammy sweat breaks out on my skin and I can’t rid myself of the feeling that the
boards above my head are about to collapse, to bury me alive under the rubble.
When I left the arena, when the trumpets played, I was supposed to be safe. From
then on. For the rest of my life. But if what Haymitch says is true, and he’s got no
reason to lie, I’ve never been in such a dangerous place in my life.

It’s so much worse than being hunted in the arena. There, I could only die. End
of story. But out here Prim, my mother, Gale, the people of District 12, everyone I
care about back home could be punished if I can’t pull off the girl-driven-crazy-bylove
scenario Haymitch has suggested.

So I still have a chance, though. Funny, in the arena, when I poured out those
berries, I was only thinking of outsmarting the Gamemakers, not how my actions
would reflect on the Capitol. But the Hunger Games are their weapon and you are
not supposed to be able to defeat it. So now the Capitol will act as if they’ve been
in control the whole time. As if they orchestrated the whole event, right down to
the double suicide. But that will only work if I play along with them.

And Peeta . . . Peeta will suffer, too, if this goes wrong. But what was it
Haymitch said when I asked if he had told Peeta the situation? That he had to
pretend to be desperately in love?

“Don’t have to. He’s already there.”

Already thinking ahead of me in the Games again and well aware of the danger
we’re in? Or . . . already desperately in love? I don’t know. I haven’t even begun to
separate out my feelings about Peeta. It’s too complicated. What I did as part of
the Games. As opposed to what I did out of anger at the Capitol. Or because of
how it would be viewed back in District 12. Or simply because it was the only
decent thing to do. Or what I did because I cared about him.

These are questions to be unraveled back home, in the peace and quiet of the
woods, when no one is watching. Not here with every eye upon me. But I won’t
have that luxury for who knows how long. And right now, the most dangerous part
of the Hunger Games is about to begin.

Categories: The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games Chapter 25

The Hunger Games Part 3: The Victor

Chapter 25

Muttations. No question about it. I’ve never seen these mutts, but they’re no
natural-born animals. They resemble huge wolves, but what wolf lands and then
balances easily on its hind legs? What wolf waves the rest of the pack forward with
its front paw as though it had a wrist? These things I can see at a distance. Up

close, I’m sure their more menacing attributes will be revealed.

Cato has made a beeline for the Cornucopia, and without question I follow him.
If he thinks it’s the safest place, who am I to argue? Besides, even if I could make
it to the trees, it would be impossible for Peeta to outrun them on that leg —
Peeta! My hands have just landed on the metal at the pointed tail of the
Cornucopia when I remember I’m part of a team. He’s about fifteen yards behind
me, hobbling as fast as he can, but the mutts are closing in on him fast. I send an
arrow into the pack and one goes down, but there are plenty to take its place.
Peeta’s waving me up the horn, “Go, Katniss! Go!”

He’s right. I can’t protect either of us on the ground. I start climbing, scaling
the Cornucopia on my hands and feet. The pure gold surface has been designed to
resemble the woven horn that we fill at harvest, so there are little ridges and
seams to get a decent hold on. But after a day in the arena sun, the metal feels
hot enough to blister my hands.

Cato lies on his side at the very top of the horn, twenty feet above the ground,
gasping to catch his breath as he gags over the edge. Now’s my chance to finish
him off. I stop midway up the horn and load another arrow, but just as I’m about to
let it fly, I hear Peeta cry out. I twist around and see he’s just reached the tail, and
the mutts are right on his heels.

“Climb!” I yell. Peeta starts up hampered by not only the leg but the knife in his
hand. I shoot my arrow down the throat of the first mutt that places its paws on
the metal. As it dies the creature lashes out, inadvertently opening gashes on a
few of its companions. That’s when I get a look at the claws. Four inches and
clearly razor-sharp.

Peeta reaches my feet and I grab his arm and pull him along. Then I remember
Cato waiting at the top and whip around, but he’s doubled over with cramps and
apparently more preoccupied with the mutts than us. He coughs out something
unintelligible. The snuffling, growling sound coming from the mutts isn’t helping.

“What?” I shout at him.

“He said, ‘Can they climb it?’” answers Peeta, drawing my focus back to the
base of the horn.

The mutts are beginning to assemble. As they join together, they raise up
again to stand easily on their back legs giving them an eerily human quality. Each
has a thick coat, some with fur that is straight and sleek, others curly, and the
colors vary from jet black to what I can only describe as blond. There’s something
else about them, something that makes the hair rise up on the back of my neck,
but I can’t put my finger on it.

They put their snouts on the horn, sniffing and tasting the metal, scraping paws
over the surface and then making high-pitched yipping sounds to one another. This
must be how they communicate because the pack backs up as if to make room.
Then one of them, a good-size mutt with silky waves of blond fur takes a running
start and leaps onto the horn. Its back legs must be incredibly powerful because it
lands a mere ten feet below us, its pink lips pulled back in a snarl. For a moment it
hangs there, and in that moment I realize what else unsettled me about the mutts.
 
The green eyes glowering at me are unlike any dog or wolf, any canine I’ve ever
seen. They are unmistakably human. And that revelation has barely registered
when I notice the collar with the number 1 inlaid with jewels and the whole
horrible thing hits me. The blonde hair, the green eyes, the number . . . it’s
Glimmer.

A shriek escapes my lips and I’m having trouble holding the arrow in place. I
have been waiting to fire, only too aware of my dwindling supply of arrows.
Waiting to see if the creatures can, in fact, climb. But now, even though the mutt
has begun to slide backward, unable to find any purchase on the metal, even
though I can hear the slow screeching of the claws like nails on a blackboard, I fire
into its throat. Its body twitches and flops onto the ground with a thud.

“Katniss?” I can feel Peeta’s grip on my arm.

“It’s her!” I get out.

“Who?” asks Peeta.

My head snaps from side to side as I examine the pack, taking in the various
sizes and colors. The small one with the red coat and amber eyes . . . Foxface!
And there, the ashen hair and hazel eyes of the boy from District 9 who died as we
struggled for the backpack! And worst of all, the smallest mutt, with dark glossy
fur, huge brown eyes and a collar that reads 1 1 in woven straw. Teeth bared in
hatred. Rue . . .

“What is it, Katniss?” Peeta shakes my shoulder.

“It’s them. It’s all of them. The others. Rue and Foxface and . . . all of the other
tributes,” I choke out.

I hear Peeta’s gasp of recognition. “What did they do to them? You don’t think .
. . those could be their real eyes?”

Their eyes are the least of my worries. What about their brains? Have they
been given any of the real tributes memo ries? Have they been programmed to
hate our faces particu larly because we have survived and they were so callously
murdered? And the ones we actually killed . . . do they believe they’re avenging
their own deaths?

Before I can get this out, the mutts begin a new assault on the horn. They’ve
split into two groups at the sides of the horn and are using those powerful
hindquarters to launch themselves at us. A pair of teeth ring together just inches
from my hand and then I hear Peeta cry out, feel the yank on his body, the heavy
weight of boy and mutt pulling me over the side. If not for the grip on my arm, he’d
be on the ground, but as it is, it takes all my strength to keep us both on the
curved back of the horn. And more tributes are coming.

“Kill it, Peeta! Kill it!” I’m shouting, and although I can’t quite see what’s
happening, I know he must have stabbed the thing because the pull lessens. I’m
able to haul him back onto the horn where we drag ourselves toward the top
where the lesser of two evils awaits.

Cato has still not regained his feet, but his breathing is slowing and I know
soon he’ll be recovered enough to come for us, to hurl us over the side to our
deaths. I arm my bow, but the arrow ends up taking out a mutt that can only be
Thresh. Who else could jump so high? I feel a moment’s relief because we must
finally be up above the mutt line and I’m just turning back to face Cato when
Peeta’s jerked from my side. I’m sure the pack has got him until his blood splatters
my face.

Cato stands before me, almost at the lip of the horn, holding Peeta in some
kind of headlock, cutting off his air. Peeta’s clawing at Cato’s arm, but weakly, as
if confused over whether it’s more important to breathe or try and stem the gush
of blood from the gaping hole a mutt left in his calf.

I aim one of my last two arrows at Cato’s head, knowing it’ll have no effect on
his trunk or limbs, which I can now see are clothed in a skintight, flesh-colored
mesh. Some high-grade body armor from the Capitol. Was that what was in his
pack at the feast? Body armor to defend against my arrows? Well, they neglected
to send a face guard.

Cato just laughs. “Shoot me and he goes down with me.”

He’s right. If I take him out and he falls to the mutts, Peeta is sure to die with
him. We’ve reached a stalemate. I can’t shoot Cato without killing Peeta, too. He
can’t kill Peeta without guaranteeing an arrow in his brain. We stand like statues,
both of us seeking an out.

My muscles are strained so tightly, they feel they might snap at any moment.
My teeth clenched to the breaking point. The mutts go silent and the only thing I
can hear is the blood pounding in my good ear.

Peeta’s lips are turning blue. If I don’t do something quickly, he’ll die of
asphyxiation and then I’ll have lost him and Cato will probably use his body as a
weapon against me. In fact, I’m sure this is Cato’s plan because while he’s stopped
laughing, his lips are set in a triumphant smile.

As if in a last-ditch effort, Peeta raises his fingers, drip ping with blood from his
leg, up to Cato’s arm. Instead of trying to wrestle his way free, his forefinger veers
off and makes a deliberate X on the back of Cato’s hand. Cato real izes what it
means exactly one second after I do. I can tell by the way the smile drops from his
lips. But it’s one second too late because, by that time, my arrow is piercing his
hand. He cries out and reflexively releases Peeta who slams back against him. For
a horrible moment, I think they’re both going over. I dive forward just catching
hold of Peeta as Cato loses his footing on the blood-slick horn and plum mets to the
ground.

We hear him hit, the air leaving his body on impact, and then the mutts attack
him. Peeta and I hold on to each other, waiting for the cannon, waiting for the
competition to finish, waiting to be released. But it doesn’t happen. Not yet.
Because this is the climax of the Hunger Games, and the audience expects a
show.

I don’t watch, but I can hear the snarls, the growls, the howls of pain from both
human and beast as Cato takes on the mutt pack. I can’t understand how he can
be surviving until I remember the body armor protecting him from ankle to neck
and I realize what a long night this could be. Cato must have a knife or sword or
something, too, something he had hidden in his clothes, because on occasion
there’s the death scream of a mutt or the sound of metal on metal as the blade
collides with the golden horn. The combat moves around the side of the
Cornucopia, and I know Cato must be attempting the one maneuver that could
save his life — to make his way back around to the tail of the horn and rejoin us.
But in the end, despite his remarkable strength and skill, he is simply
overpowered.

I don’t know how long it has been, maybe an hour or so, when Cato hits the
ground and we hear the mutts dragging him, dragging him back into the
Cornucopia. Now they’ll finish him off, I think. But there’s still no cannon.
Night falls and the anthem plays and there’s no picture of Cato in the sky, only
the faint moans coming through the metal beneath us. The icy air blowing across
the plain reminds me that the Games are not over and may not be for who knows
how long, and there is still no guarantee of victory.

I turn my attention to Peeta and discover his leg is bleeding as badly as ever.
All our supplies, our packs, remain down by the lake where we abandoned them
when we fled from the mutts. I have no bandage, nothing to staunch the flow of
blood from his calf. Although I’m shaking in the biting wind, I rip off my jacket,
remove my shirt, and zip back into the jacket as swiftly as possible. That brief
exposure sets my teeth chattering beyond control.

Peeta’s face is gray in the pale moonlight. I make him lie down before I probe
his wound. Warm, slippery blood runs over my fingers. A bandage will not be
enough. I’ve seen my mother tie a tourniquet a handful of times and try to
replicate it. I cut free a sleeve from my shirt, wrap it twice around his leg just
under his knee, and tie a half knot. I don’t have a stick, so I take my remaining
arrow and insert it in the knot, twisting it as tightly as I dare. It’s risky business —
Peeta may end up losing his leg — but when I weigh this against him losing his life,
what alternative do I have? I bandage the wound in the rest of my shirt and lay
down with him.

“Don’t go to sleep,” I tell him. I’m not sure if this is exactly medical protocol,
but I’m terrified that if he drifts off he’ll never wake again.

“Are you cold?” he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he
fastens it around me. It’s a bit warmer, sharing our body heat inside my double
layer of jackets, but the night is young. The temperature will continue to drop.
Even now I can feel the Cornucopia, which burned so when I first climbed it,
slowly turning to ice.

“Cato may win this thing yet,” I whisper to Peeta.

“Don’t you believe it,” he says, pulling up my hood, but he’s shaking harder
than I am.

The next hours are the worst in my life, which if you think about it, is saying
something. The cold would be torture enough, but the real nightmare is listening
to Cato, moaning, begging, and finally just whimpering as the mutts work away at
him. After a very short time, I don’t care who he is or what he’s done, all I want is
for his suffering to end.

“Why don’t they just kill him?” I ask Peeta.

“You know why,” he says, and pulls me closer to him.

And I do. No viewer could turn away from the show now. From the
Gamemakers’ point of view, this is the final word in entertainment.
It goes on and on and on and eventually completely consumes my mind,
blocking out memories and hopes of tomorrow, erasing everything but the present,
which I begin to believe will never change. There will never be anything but cold
and fear and the agonized sounds of the boy dying in the horn.

Peeta begins to doze off now, and each time he does, I find myself yelling his
name louder and louder because if he goes and dies on me now, I know I’ll go
completely insane. He’s fighting it, probably more for me than for him, and it’s
hard because unconsciousness would be its own form of escape. But the
adrenaline pumping through my body would never allow me to follow him, so I
can’t let him go. I just can’t.

The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift
of the moon. So Peeta begins point ing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its
progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the
agony of the night engulfs me again.

Finally, I hear him whisper that the sun is rising. I open my eyes and find the
stars fading in the pale light of dawn. I can see, too, how bloodless Peeta’s face
has become. How little time he has left. And I know I have to get him back to the
Capitol.

Still, no cannon has fired. I press my good ear against the horn and can just
make out Cato’s voice.

“I think he’s closer now. Katniss, can you shoot him?” Peeta asks.
If he’s near the mouth, I may be able to take him out. It would be an act of
mercy at this point.

“My last arrow’s in your tourniquet,” I say.

“Make it count,” says Peeta, unzipping his jacket, letting me loose.
So I free the arrow, tying the tourniquet back as tightly as my frozen fingers
can manage. I rub my hands together, trying to regain circulation. When I crawl to
the lip of the horn and hang over the edge, I feel Peeta’s hands grip me for
support.

It takes a few moments to find Cato in the dim light, in the blood. Then the raw
hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his
mouth is. And I think the word he’s trying to say is please.

Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into his skull. Peeta pulls me back
up, bow in hand, quiver empty.

“Did you get him?” he whispers.

The cannon fires in answer.

“Then we won, Katniss,” he says hollowly.

“Hurray for us,” I get out, but there’s no joy of victory in my voice.
A hole opens in the plain and as if on cue, the remaining mutts bound into it,
disappearing as the earth closes above them.

We wait, for the hovercraft to take Cato’s remains, for the trumpets of victory
that should follow, but nothing happens.

“Hey!” I shout into air. “What’s going on?” The only response is the chatter of
waking birds.

“Maybe it’s the body. Maybe we have to move away from it,” says Peeta.
I try to remember. Do you have to distance yourself from the dead tribute on
the final kill? My brain is too muddled to be sure, but what else could be the
reason for the delay?

“Okay. Think you could make it to the lake?” I ask.

“Think I better try,” says Peeta. We inch down to the tail of the horn and fall to
the ground. If the stiffness in my limbs is this bad, how can Peeta even move? I
rise first, swinging and bending my arms and legs until I think I can help him up.
Somehow, we make it back to the lake. I scoop up a handful of the cold water for
Peeta and bring a second to my lips.

A mockingjay gives the long, low whistle, and tears of relief fill my eyes as the
hovercraft appears and takes Cato’s body away. Now they will take us. Now we
can go home.

But again there’s no response.

“What are they waiting for?” says Peeta weakly. Between the loss of the
tourniquet and the effort it took to get to the lake, his wound has opened up again.
“I don’t know,” I say. Whatever the holdup is, I can’t watch him lose any more
blood. I get up to find a stick but almost immediately come across the arrow that
bounced off Cato’s body armor. It will do as well as the other arrow. As I stoop to
pick it up, Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms into the arena.

“Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The
earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has
disclosed that only one winner may be allowed,” he says. “Good luck and may the
odds be ever in your favor.”

There’s a small burst of static and then nothing more. I stare at Peeta in
disbelief as the truth sinks in. They never intended to let us both live. This has all
been devised by the Gamemakers to guarantee the most dramatic showdown in
history. And like a fool, I bought into it.

“If you think about it, it’s not that surprising,” he says softly. I watch as he
painfully makes it to his feet. Then he’s moving toward me, as if in slow motion,
his hand is pulling the knife from his belt —

Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow
pointed straight at his heart. Peeta raises his eyebrows and I see the knife has
already left his hand on its way to the lake where it splashes in the water. I drop
my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame.

“No,” he says. “Do it.” Peeta limps toward me and thrusts the weapons back in
my hands.

“I can’t, I say. “I won’t.”

“Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don’t want to die like
Cato,” he says.

“Then you shoot me,” I say furiously, shoving the weapons back at him. “You
shoot me and go home and live with it!” And as I say it, I know death right here,
right now would be the easier of the two.

“You know I can’t,” Peeta says, discarding the weapons. “Fine, I’ll go first
anyway.” He leans down and rips the bandage off his leg, eliminating the final
barrier between his blood and the earth.
“No, you can’t kill yourself,” I say. I’m on my knees, desperately plastering the
bandage back onto his wound.
“Katniss,” he says. “It’s what I want.”
“You’re not leaving me here alone,” I say. Because if he dies, I’ll never go
home, not really. I’ll spend the rest of my life in this arena trying to think my way
out.
“Listen,” he says pulling me to my feet. “We both know they have to have a
victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me.” And he goes on about how
he loves me, what life would be without me but I’ve stopped listening because his
previous words are trapped in my head, thrashing desperately around.
We both know they have to have a victor.

Yes, they have to have a victor. Without a victor, the whole thing would blow
up in the Gamemakers’ faces. They’d have failed the Capitol. Might possibly even
be executed, slowly and painfully while the cameras broadcast it to every screen
in the country.

If Peeta and I were both to die, or they thought we were . . .
My fingers fumble with the pouch on my belt, freeing it. Peeta sees it and his
hand clamps on my wrist. “No, I won’t let you.”

“Trust me,” I whisper. He holds my gaze for a long moment then lets me go. I
loosen the top of the pouch and pour a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm. Then
I fill my own. “On the count of three?”

Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. “The count of three,” he
says.

We stand, our backs pressed together, our empty hands locked tight.
“Hold them out. I want everyone to see,” he says.

I spread out my fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun. I give Peeta’s
hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we begin counting. “One.”

Maybe I’m wrong. “Two.” Maybe they don’t care if we both die. “Three!” It’s too
late to change my mind. I lift my hand to my mouth, taking one last look at the
world. The berries have just passed my lips when the trumpets begin to blare.

The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. “Stop! Stop!
Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth
Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you — the tributes of
District Twelve!”

Categories: The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games Chapter 24

The Hunger Games Part 3: The Victor

Chapter 24


It takes a while to explain the situation to Peeta. How Foxface stole the food
from the supply pile before I blew it up, how she tried to take enough to stay alive
but not enough that anyone would notice it, how she wouldn’t question the safety
of berries we were preparing to eat ourselves.

“I wonder how she found us,” says Peeta. “My fault, I guess, if I’m as loud as
you say.”

We were about as hard to follow as a herd of cattle, but I try to be kind. “And
she’s very clever, Peeta. Well, she was. Until you outfoxed her.”

“Not on purpose. Doesn’t seem fair somehow. I mean, we would have both
been dead, too, if she hadn’t eaten the berries first.” He checks himself. “No, of
course, we wouldn’t. You recognized them, didn’t you?”

I give a nod. “We call them nightlock.”

“Even the name sounds deadly,” he says. “I’m sorry, Katniss. I really thought
they were the same ones you’d gathered.”

“Don’t apologize. It just means we’re one step closer to home, right?” I ask.

“I’ll get rid of the rest,” Peeta says. He gathers up the sheet of blue plastic,
careful to trap the berries inside, and goes to toss them into the woods.

“Wait!” I cry. I find the leather pouch that belonged to the boy from District 1
and fill it with a few handfuls of berries from the plastic. “If they fooled Foxface,
maybe they can fool Cato as well. If he’s chasing us or something, we can act like
we accidentally drop the pouch and if he eats them —”

“Then hello District Twelve,” says Peeta.

“That’s it,” I say, securing the pouch to my belt.

“He’ll know where we are now,” says Peeta. “If he was anywhere nearby and
saw that hovercraft, he’ll know we killed her and come after us.”

Peeta’s right. This could be just the opportunity Cato’s been waiting for. But
even if we run now, there’s the meat to cook and our fire will be another sign of
our whereabouts. “Let’s make a fire. Right now.” I begin to gather branches and
brush.

“Are you ready to face him?” Peeta asks.

“I’m ready to eat. Better to cook our food while we have the chance. If he
knows we’re here, he knows. But he also knows there’s two of us and probably
assumes we were hunting Foxface. That means you’re recovered. And the fire
means we’re not hiding, we’re inviting him here. Would you show up?” I ask.

“Maybe not,” he says.

Peeta’s a whiz with fires, coaxing a blaze out of the damp wood. In no time, I
have the rabbits and squirrel roasting, the roots, wrapped in leaves, baking in the
coals. We take turns gathering greens and keeping a careful watch for Cato, but
as I anticipated, he doesn’t make an appearance.

When the food’s cooked, I pack most of it up, leaving us each a rabbit’s leg to
eat as we walk.

I want to move higher into the woods, climb a good tree, and make camp for
the night, but Peeta resists. “I can’t climb like you, Katniss, especially with my leg,
and I don’t think I could ever fall asleep fifty feet above the ground.”

“It’s not safe to stay in the open, Peeta,” I say.

“Can’t we go back to the cave?” he asks. “It’s near water and easy to defend.”

I sigh. Several more hours of walking — or should I say crashing — through the
woods to reach an area we’ll just have to leave in the morning to hunt. But Peeta
doesn’t ask for much. He’s followed my instructions all day and I’m sure if things
were reversed, he wouldn’t make me spend the night in a tree. It dawns on me
that I haven’t been very nice to Peeta today. Nagging him about how loud he was,
screaming at him over disappearing. The playful romance we had sustained in the
cave has disappeared out in the open, under the hot sun, with the threat of Cato
looming over us. Haymitch has probably just about had it with me. And as for the
audience . . .

I reach up and give him a kiss. “Sure. Let’s go back to the cave.”

He looks pleased and relieved. “Well, that was easy.”

I work my arrow out of the oak, careful not to damage the shaft. These arrows
are food, safety, and life itself now.

We toss a bunch more wood on the fire. It should be sending off smoke for a
few more hours, although I doubt Cato assumes anything at this point. When we
reach the stream, I see the water has dropped considerably and moves at its old
leisurely pace, so I suggest we walk back in it. Peeta’s happy to oblige and since
he’s a lot quieter in water than on land, it’s a doubly good idea. It’s a long walk
back to the cave though, even going downward, even with the rabbit to give us a
boost. We’re both exhausted by our hike today and still way too underfed. I keep
my bow loaded, both for Cato and any fish I might see, but the stream seems
strangely empty of creatures.

By the time we reach our destination, our feet are dragging and the sun sits
low on the horizon. We fill up our water bottles and climb the little slope to our
den. It’s not much, but out here in the wilderness, it’s the closest thing we have to
a home. It will be warmer than a tree, too, because it provides some shelter from
the wind that has begun to blow steadily in from the west. I set a good dinner out,
but halfway through Peeta begins to nod off. After days of inactivity, the hunt has
taken its toll. I order him into the sleeping bag and set aside the rest of his food for
when he wakes. He drops off immediately. I pull the sleeping bag up to his chin
and kiss his forehead, not for the audience, but for me. Because I’m so grateful
that he’s still here, not dead by the stream as I’d thought. So glad that I don’t have
to face Cato alone.

Brutal, bloody Cato who can snap a neck with a twist of his arm, who had the
power to overcome Thresh, who has had it out for me since the beginning. He
probably has had a special hatred for me ever since I outscored him in training. A
boy like Peeta would simply shrug that off. But I have a feeling it drove Cato to
distraction. Which is not that hard. I think of his ridiculous reaction to finding the
supplies blown up. The others were upset, of course, but he was completely
unhinged. I wonder now if Cato might not be entirely sane.

The sky lights up with the seal, and I watch Foxface shine in the sky and then
disappear from the world forever. He hasn’t said it, but I don’t think Peeta felt
good about killing her, even if it was essential. I can’t pretend I’ll miss her, but I
have to admire her. My guess is if they had given us some sort of test, she would
have been the smartest of all the tributes. If, in fact, we had been setting a trap for
her, I bet she’d have sensed it and avoided the berries. It was Peeta’s own
ignorance that brought her down. I’ve spent so much time making sure I don’t
underestimate my opponents that I’ve forgotten it’s just as dangerous to
overestimate them as well.

That brings me back to Cato. But while I think I had a sense of Foxface, who
she was and how she operated, he’s a little more slippery. Powerful, well trained,
but smart? I don’t know. Not like she was. And utterly lacking in the control
Foxface demonstrated. I believe Cato could easily lose his judgment in a fit of
temper. Not that I can feel superior on that point. I think of the moment I sent the
arrow flying into the apple in the pig’s mouth when I was so enraged. Maybe I do
understand Cato better than I think.

Despite the fatigue in my body, my mind’s alert, so I let Peeta sleep long past
our usual switch. In fact, a soft gray day has begun when I shake his shoulder. He
looks out, almost in alarm. “I slept the whole night. That’s not fair, Katniss, you
should have woken me.”

I stretch and burrow down into the bag. “I’ll sleep now. Wake me if anything
interesting happens.”

Apparently nothing does, because when I open my eyes, bright hot afternoon
light gleams through the rocks. “Any sign of our friend?” I ask.

Peeta shakes his head. “No, he’s keeping a disturbingly low profile.”

“How long do you think we’ll have before the Gamemakers drive us together?”
I ask.

“Well, Foxface died almost a day ago, so there’s been plenty of time for the
audience to place bets and get bored. I guess it could happen at any moment,”
says Peeta.

“Yeah, I have a feeling today’s the day,” I say. I sit up and look out at the
peaceful terrain. “I wonder how they’ll do it.”

Peeta remains silent. There’s not really any good answer.

“Well, until they do, no sense in wasting a hunting day. But we should probably
eat as much as we can hold just in case we run into trouble,” I say.

Peeta packs up our gear while I lay out a big meal. The rest of the rabbits,
roots, greens, the rolls spread with the last bit of cheese. The only thing I leave in
reserve is the squirrel and the apple.

By the time we’re done, all that’s left is a pile of rabbit bones. My hands are
greasy, which only adds to my growing feeling of grubbiness. Maybe we don’t
bathe daily in the Seam, but we keep cleaner than I have of late. Except for my
feet, which have walked in the stream, I’m covered in a layer of grime.

Leaving the cave has a sense of finality about it. I don’t think there will be
another night in the arena somehow. One way or the other, dead or alive, I have
the feeling I’ll escape it today. I give the rocks a pat good-bye and we head down
to the stream to wash up. I can feel my skin, itching for the cool water. I may do
my hair and braid it back wet. I’m wondering if we might even be able to give our
clothes a quick scrub when we reach the stream. Or what used to be the stream.
Now there’s only a bone-dry bed. I put my hand down to feel it.

“Not even a little damp. They must have drained it while we slept,” I say. A
fear of the cracked tongue, aching body and fuzzy mind brought on by my previous
dehydration creeps into my consciousness. Our bottles and skin are fairly full, but
with two drinking and this hot sun it won’t take long to deplete them.

“The lake,” says Peeta. “That’s where they want us to go.”

“Maybe the ponds still have some,” I say hopefully.

“We can check,” he says, but he’s just humoring me. I’m humoring myself
because I know what I’ll find when we return to the pond where I soaked my leg. A
dusty, gaping mouth of a hole. But we make the trip anyway just to confirm what
we already know.

“You’re right. They’re driving us to the lake,” I say. Where there’s no cover.
Where they’re guaranteed a bloody fight to the death with nothing to block their
view. “Do you want to go straightaway or wait until the water’s tapped out?”

“Let’s go now, while we’ve had food and rest. Let’s just go end this thing,” he
says.

I nod. It’s funny. I feel almost as if it’s the first day of the Games again. That
I’m in the same position. Twenty-one tributes are dead, but I still have yet to kill
Cato. And really, wasn’t he always the one to kill? Now it seems the other tributes
were just minor obstacles, distractions, keeping us from the real battle of the
Games. Cato and me.

But no, there’s the boy waiting beside me. I feel his arms wrap around me.

“Two against one. Should be a piece of cake,” he says.

“Next time we eat, it will be in the Capitol,” I answer.

“You bet it will,” he says.

We stand there a while, locked in an embrace, feeling each other, the sunlight,
the rustle of the leaves at our feet. Then without a word, we break apart and head
for the lake.

I don’t care now that Peeta’s footfalls send rodents scurrying, make birds take
wing. We have to fight Cato and I’d just as soon do it here as on the plain. But I
doubt I’ll have that choice. If the Gamemakers want us in the open, then in the
open we will be.

We stop to rest for a few moments under the tree where the Careers trapped
me. The husk of the tracker jacker nest, beaten to a pulp by the heavy rains and
dried in the burning sun, confirms the location. I touch it with the tip of my boot,
and it dissolves into dust that is quickly carried off by the breeze. I can’t help
looking up in the tree where Rue secretly perched, waiting to save my life. Tracker
jackers. Glimmer’s bloated body. The terrifying hallucinations . . .

“Let’s move on,” I say, wanting to escape the darkness that surrounds this
place. Peeta doesn’t object.

Given our late start to the day, when we reach the plain it’s already early
evening. There’s no sign of Cato. No sign of anything except the gold Cornucopia
glowing in the slanting sun rays. Just in case Cato decided to pull a Foxface on us,
we circle the Cornucopia to make sure it’s empty. Then obediently, as if following
instructions, we cross to the lake and fill our water containers.

I frown at the shrinking sun. “We don’t want to fight him after dark. There’s
only the one pair of glasses.”

Peeta carefully squeezes drops of iodine into the water. “Maybe that’s what
he’s waiting for. What do you want to do? Go back to the cave?”

“Either that or find a tree. But let’s give him another half an hour or so. Then
we’ll take cover,” I answer.

We sit by the lake, in full sight. There’s no point in hiding now. In the trees at
the edge of the plain, I can see the mockingjays flitting about. Bouncing melodies
back and forth between them like brightly colored balls. I open my mouth and sing
out Rue’s four-note run. I can feel them pause curiously at the sound of my voice,
listening for more. I repeat the notes in the silence. First one mockingjay trills the
tune back, then another. Then the whole world comes alive with the sound.

“Just like your father,” says Peeta.

My fingers find the pin on my shirt. “That’s Rue’s song,” I say. “I think they
remember it.”

The music swells and I recognize the brilliance of it. As the notes overlap, they
compliment one another, forming a lovely, unearthly harmony. It was this sound
then, thanks to Rue, that sent the orchard workers of District 11 home each night.
Does someone start it at quitting time, I wonder, now that she is dead?

For a while, I just close my eyes and listen, mesmerized by the beauty of the
song. Then something begins to disrupt the music. Runs cut off in jagged,
imperfect lines. Dissonant notes intersperse with the melody. The mockingjays’
voices rise up in a shrieking cry of alarm.

We’re on our feet, Peeta wielding his knife, me poised to shoot, when Cato
smashes through the trees and bears down on us. He has no spear. In fact, his
hands are empty, yet he runs straight for us. My first arrow hits his chest and
inexplicably falls aside.

“He’s got some kind of body armor!” I shout to Peeta.

Just in time, too, because Cato is upon us. I brace myself, but he rockets right
between us with no attempt to check his speed. I can tell from his panting, the
sweat pouring off his purplish face, that he’s been running hard a long time. Not
toward us. From something. But what?

My eyes scan the woods just in time to see the first creature leap onto the
plain. As I’m turning away, I see another half dozen join it. Then I am stumbling
blindly after Cato with no thought of anything but to save myself.

Categories: The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games Chapter 23

The Hunger Games Part 3: The Victor

Chapter 23

Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and cram it, handful by
handful into my mouth. But Peeta’s voice stops me. “We better take it slow on that
stew. Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I
wasn’t even starving then.”

“You’re right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!” I say regretfully. But I
don’t. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size
serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls — they even
sent us silverware and plates — savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare
longingly at the dish. “I want more.”

“Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another
serving,” Peeta says.

“Agreed,” I say. “It’s going to be a long hour.”

“Maybe not that long,” says Peeta. “What was that you were saying just before
the food arrived? Something about me . . . no competition . . . best thing that ever
happened to you . . .”

“I don’t remember that last part,” I say, hoping it’s too dim in here for the
cameras to pick up my blush.

“Oh, that’s right. That’s what I was thinking,” he says. “Scoot over, I’m
freezing.”

I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall,
my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel Haymitch
nudging me to keep up the act. “So, since we were five, you never even noticed
any other girls?” I ask him.

“No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting
impression but you,” he says.

“I’m sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam,” I say.
“Hardly. But I couldn’t care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won’t be a
girl from the Seam, you’ll be a girl from the Victor’s Village,” he says.

That’s right. If we win, we’ll each get a house in the part of town reserved for
Hunger Games’ victors. Long ago, when the Games began, the Capitol had built a
dozen fine houses in each district. Of course, in ours only one is occupied. Most of
the others have never been lived in at all.

A disturbing thought hits me. “But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!”

“Ah, that’ll be nice,” says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. “You and me
and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire
retelling old Hunger Games’ tales.”

“I told you, he hates me!” I say, but I can’t help laughing at the image of
Haymitch becoming my new pal.

“Only sometimes. When he’s sober, I’ve never heard him say one negative
thing about you,” says Peeta.

“He’s never sober!” I protest.

“That’s right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It’s Cinna who likes you. But
that’s mainly because you didn’t try to run when he set you on fire,” says Peeta.

“On the other hand, Haymitch . . . well, if I were you, I’d avoid Haymitch
completely. He hates you.”

“I thought you said I was his favorite,” I say.

“He hates me more,” says Peeta. “I don’t think people in general are his sort of
thing.”

I know the audience will enjoy our having fun at Haymitch’s expense. He has
been around so long, he’s practically an old friend to some of them. And after his
head-dive off the stage at the reaping, everybody knows him. By this time, they’ll
have dragged him out of the control room for interviews about us. No telling what
sort of lies he’s made up. He’s at something of a disadvantage because most
mentors have a partner, another victor to help them whereas Haymitch has to be
ready to go into action at any moment. Kind of like me when I was alone in the
arena. I wonder how he’s holding up, with the drinking, the attention, and the
stress of trying to keep us alive.

It’s funny. Haymitch and I don’t get along well in person, but maybe Peeta is
right about us being alike because he seems able to communicate with me by the
timing of his gifts. Like how I knew I must be close to water when he withheld it
and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn’t something to ease Peeta’s pain and
how I know now that I have to play up the romance. He hasn’t made much effort to
connect with Peeta really. Perhaps he thinks a bowl of broth would just be a bowl
of broth to Peeta, whereas I’ll see the strings attached to it.

A thought hits me, and I’m amazed the question’s taken so long to surface.
Maybe it’s because I’ve only recently begun to view Haymitch with a degree of
curiosity. “How do you think he did it?”

“Who? Did what?” Peeta asks.

“Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?” I say.

Peeta considers this quite a while before he answers. Haymitch is sturdily built,
but no physical wonder like Cato or Thresh. He’s not particularly handsome. Not in
the way that causes sponsors to rain gifts on you. And he’s so surly, it’s hard to
imagine anyone teaming up with him. There’s only one way Haymitch could have
won, and Peeta says it just as I’m reaching this conclusion myself.

“He outsmarted the others,” says Peeta.

I nod, then let the conversation drop. But secretly I’m wondering if Haymitch
sobered up long enough to help Peeta and me because he thought we just might
have the wits to survive. Maybe he wasn’t always a drunk. Maybe, in the
beginning, he tried to help the tributes. But then it got unbearable. It must be hell
to mentor two kids and then watch them die. Year after year after year. I realize
that if I get out of here, that will become my job. To mentor the girl from District
12. The idea is so repellent, I thrust it from my mind.

About half an hour has passed before I decide I have to eat again. Peeta’s too
hungry himself to put up an argument. While I’m dishing up two more small
servings of lamb stew and rice, we hear the anthem begin to play. Peeta presses
his eyes against a crack in the rocks to watch the sky.

“There won’t be anything to see tonight,” I say, far more interested in the stew
than the sky. “Nothing’s happened or we would’ve heard a cannon.”

“Katniss,” Peeta says quietly.

“What? Should we split another roll, too?” I ask.

“Katniss,” he repeats, but I find myself wanting to ignore him.

“I’m going to split one. But I’ll save the cheese for tomorrow,” I say. I see
Peeta staring at me. “What?”

“Thresh is dead,” says Peeta.

“He can’t be,” I say.

“They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it,” says
Peeta.

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s pouring buckets out there. I don’t know how you
can see anything,” I say. I push him away from the rocks and squint out into the
dark, rainy sky. For about ten seconds, I catch a distorted glimpse of Thresh’s
picture and then he’s gone. Just like that.

I slump down against the rocks, momentarily forgetting about the task at hand.
Thresh dead. I should be happy, right? One less tribute to face. And a powerful
one, too. But I’m not happy. All I can think about is Thresh letting me go, letting
me run because of Rue, who died with that spear in her stomach. . . .

“You all right?” asks Peeta.

I give a noncommittal shrug and cup my elbows in my hands, hugging them
close to my body. I have to bury the real pain because who’s going to bet on a
tribute who keeps sniveling over the deaths of her opponents. Rue was one thing.
We were allies. She was so young. But no one will understand my sorrow at
Thresh’s murder. The word pulls me up short. Murder! Thankfully, I didn’t say it
aloud. That’s not going to win me any points in the arena. What I do say is, “It’s
just . . . if we didn’t win . . . I wanted Thresh to. Because he let me go. And
because of Rue.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Peeta. “But this means we’re one step closer to District
Twelve.” He nudges a plate of foot into my hands. “Eat. It’s still warm.”
I take a bite of the stew to show I don’t really care, but it’s like glue in my
mouth and takes a lot of effort to swallow. “It also means Cato will be back hunting
us.”

“And he’s got supplies again,” says Peeta.

“He’ll be wounded, I bet,” I say.

“What makes you say that?” Peeta asks.

“Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight. He’s so strong, I
mean, he was. And they were in his territory,” I say.

“Good,” says Peeta. “The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how
Foxface is making out.”

“Oh, she’s fine,” I say peevishly. I’m still angry she thought of hiding in the
Cornucopia and I didn’t. “Probably be easier to catch Cato than her.”

“Maybe they’ll catch each other and we can just go home,” says Peeta. “But
we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times.”

“Me, too,” I admit. “But not tonight.”

We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I
burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to
hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any
emotion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I silently say good-bye
to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do
something to help his family and Rue’s, if I win. Then I escape into sleep,
comforted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me.
When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat
cheese. He’s holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped
with apple slices. “Don’t be mad,” he says. “I had to eat again. Here’s your half.”

“Oh, good,” I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese
tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. “Mm.”

“We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery,” he says.

“Bet that’s expensive,” I say.

“Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it’s gone very stale. Of course,
practically everything we eat is stale,” says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up
around him. In less than a minute, he’s snoring.

Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life.

And it’s true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there’s something kind
of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one
else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis,
most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn’t going to make a run for it.
Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The
downpour ends and there’s only the residual drippings of water from branches, the
rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and
even without the glasses I can see outside. I can’t decide if the moon is real or
merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left
home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours.

How long have I been gone? I’m guessing it’s been about two weeks in the
arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has
completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same
one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to
cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to
be doubted.

Four of us left.

For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might
make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor’s Village. My
mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of
freedom. But then . . . what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it
has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I’m not really
sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch,
with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children,
most of his waking hours drunk. I don’t want to end up like that.

“But you won’t be alone,” I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim.
Well, for the time being. And then . . . I don’t want to think about then, when Prim
has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I’ll never marry, never risk bringing
a child into the world. Because if there’s one thing being a victor doesn’t
guarantee, it’s your children’s safety. My kids’ names would go right into the
reaping balls with everyone else’s. And I swear I’ll never let that happen.

The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating
Peeta’s face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing,
good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem
believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I’ll admit it, there are moments
when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we’ll be friends, I think. Nothing will
change the fact that we’ve saved each other’s lives in here. And beyond that, he
will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though .
. . and I feel Gale’s gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from
District 12.

Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta’s shoulder. His
eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss.
“We’re wasting hunting time,” I say when I finally break away.

“I wouldn’t call it wasting,” he says giving a big stretch as he sits up. “So do we
hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?”

“Not us,” I say. “We stuff ourselves to give us staying power.”

“Count me in,” Peeta says. But I can see he’s surprised when I divide the rest
of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. “All this?”

“We’ll earn it back today,” I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold,
it’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the
last dabs of gravy with my finger. “I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my
manners.”

“Hey, Effie, watch this!” says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and
literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he
blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, “We miss you, Effie!”

I cover his mouth with my hand, but I’m laughing. “Stop! Cato could be right
outside our cave.”

He grabs my hand away. “What do I care? I’ve got you to protect me now,”
says Peeta, pulling me to him.

“Come on,” I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not
before he gets in another kiss.

Once we’re packed up and standing outside our cave, our mood shifts to
serious. It’s as though for the last few days, sheltered by the rocks and the rain
and Cato’s preoccupation with Thresh, we were given a respite, a holiday of sorts.
Now, although the day is sunny and warm, we both sense we’re really back in the
Games. I hand Peeta my knife, since whatever weapons he once had are long
gone, and he slips it into his belt. My last seven arrows — of the twelve I sacrificed
three in the explosion, two at the feast — rattle a bit too loosely in the quiver. I
can’t afford to lose any more.

“He’ll be hunting us by now,” says Peeta. “Cato isn’t one to wait for his prey to
wander by.”

“If he’s wounded —” I begin.

“It won’t matter,” Peeta breaks in. “If he can move, he’s coming.”

With all the rain, the stream has overrun its banks by several feet on either
side. We stop there to replenish our water. I check the snares I set days ago and
come up empty. Not surprising with the weather. Besides, I haven’t seen many
animals or signs of them in this area.

“If we want food, we better head back up to my old hunting grounds,” I say.

“Your call. Just tell me what you need me to do,” Peeta says.

“Keep an eye out,” I say. “Stay on the rocks as much as possible, no sense in
leaving him tracks to follow. And listen for both of us.” It’s clear, at this point, that
the explosion destroyed the hearing in my left ear for good.

I’d walk in the water to cover our tracks completely, but I’m not sure Peeta’s
leg could take the current. Although the drugs have erased the infection, he’s still
pretty weak. My forehead hurts along the knife cut, but after three days the
bleeding has stopped. I wear a bandage around my head though, just in case
physical exertion should bring it back.

As we head up alongside the stream, we pass the place where I found Peeta
camouflaged in the weeds and mud. One good thing, between the downpour and
the flooded banks, all signs of his hiding place have been wiped out. That means
that, if need be, we can come back to our cave. Otherwise, I wouldn’t risk it with
Cato after us.

The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles, and then, to my
relief, we’re back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor. For the
first time, I realize we have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg
— well, you’re naturally going to make some noise. But even on the smooth bed of
needles, Peeta is loud. And I mean loud loud, as if he’s stomping his feet or
something. I turn and look at him.

“What?” he asks.

“You’ve got to move more quietly,” I say. “Forget about Cato, you’re chasing
off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius.”

“Really?” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

So, we start up again and he’s a tiny bit better, but even with only one working
ear, he’s making me jump.

“Can you take your boots off?” I suggest.

“Here?” he asks in disbelief, as if I’d asked him to walk barefoot on hot coals or
something. I have to remind myself that he’s still not used to the woods, that it’s
the scary, forbidden place beyond the fences of District 12. I think of Gale, with his
velvet tread. It’s eerie how little sound he makes, even when the leaves have
fallen and it’s a challenge to move at all without chasing off the game. I feel
certain he’s laughing back home.

“Yes,” I say patiently. “I will, too. That way we’ll both be quieter.” Like I was
making any noise. So we both strip off our boots and socks and, while there’s
some improvement, I could swear he’s making an effort to snap every branch we
encounter.

Needless to say, although it takes several hours to reach my old camp with
Rue, I’ve shot nothing. If the stream would settle down, fish might be an option,
but the current is still too strong. As we stop to rest and drink water, I try to work
out a solution. Ideally, I’d dump Peeta now with some simple root-gathering chore
and go hunt, but then he’d be left with only a knife to defend himself against
Cato’s spears and superior strength. So what I’d really like is to try and conceal
him somewhere safe, then go hunt, and come back and collect him. But I have a
feeling his ego isn’t going to go for that suggestion.

“Katniss,” he says. “We need to split up. I know I’m chasing away the game.”

“Only because your leg’s hurt,” I say generously, because really, you can tell
that’s only a small part of the problem.

“I know,” he says. “So, why don’t you go on? Show me some plants to gather
and that way we’ll both be useful.”

“Not if Cato comes and kills you.” I tried to say it in a nice way, but it still
sounds like I think he’s a weakling.

Surprisingly, he just laughs. “Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before,
didn’t I?”

Yeah, and that turned out great. You ended up dying in a mud bank. That’s
what I want to say, but I can’t. He did save my life by taking on Cato after all. I try
another tactic. “What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I
hunted?” I say, trying to make it sound like very important work.

“What if you show me what’s edible around here and go get us some meat?”
he says, mimicking my tone. “Just don’t go far, in case you need help.”

I sigh and show him some roots to dig. We do need food, no question. One
apple, two rolls, and a blob of cheese the size of a plum won’t last long. I’ll just go
a short distance and hope Cato is a long way off.

I teach him a bird whistle — not a melody like Rue’s but a simple two-note
whistle — which we can use to communicate that we’re all right. Fortunately, he’s
good at this. Leaving him with the pack, I head off.

I feel like I’m eleven again, tethered not to the safety of the fence but to Peeta,
allowing myself twenty, maybe thirty yards of hunting space. Away from him
though, the woods come alive with animal sounds. Reassured by his periodic
whistles, I allow myself to drift farther away, and soon have two rabbits and a fat
squirrel to show for it. I decide it’s enough. I can set snares and maybe get some
fish. With Peeta’s roots, this will be enough for now.

As I travel the short distance back, I realize we haven’t exchanged signals in a
while. When my whistle receives no response, I run. In no time, I find the pack, a
neat pile of roots beside it. The sheet of plastic has been laid on the ground where
the sun can reach the single layer of berries that covers it. But where is he?

“Peeta!” I call out in a panic. “Peeta!” I turn to the rus tle of brush and almost
send an arrow through him. Fortunately, I pull my bow at the last second and it
sticks in an oak trunk to his left. He jumps back, flinging a handful of berries into
the foliage.

My fear comes out as anger. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be here,
not running around in the woods!”

“I found some berries down by the stream,” he says, clearly confused by my
outburst.

“I whistled. Why didn’t you whistle back?” I snap at him.

“I didn’t hear. The water’s too loud, I guess,” he says. He crosses and puts his
hands on my shoulders. That’s when I feel that I’m trembling.

“I thought Cato killed you!” I almost shout.

“No, I’m fine.” Peeta wraps his arms around me, but I don’t respond. “Katniss?”

I push away, trying to sort out my feelings. “If two peo ple agree on a signal,
they stay in range. Because if one of them doesn’t answer, they’re in trouble, all
right?”

“All right!” he says.

“All right. Because that’s what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!” I
say. I turn away from him, go to the pack and open a fresh bottle of water,
although I still have some in mine. But I’m not ready to forgive him. I notice the
food. The rolls and apples are untouched, but someone’s definitely picked away
part of the cheese. “And you ate without me!” I really don’t care, I just want
something else to be mad about.

“What? No, I didn’t,” Peeta says.

“Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese,” I say.

“I don’t know what ate the cheese,” Peeta says slowly and distinctly, as if
trying not to lose his temper, “but it wasn’t me. I’ve been down by the stream
collecting berries. Would you care for some?”

I would actually, but I don’t want to relent too soon. I do walk over and look at
them. I’ve never seen this type before. No, I have. But not in the arena. These
aren’t Rue’s berries, although they resemble them. Nor do they match any I
learned about in training. I lean down and scoop up a few, rolling them between
my fingers.

My father’s voice comes back to me. “Not these, Katniss. Never these. They’re
nightlock. You’ll be dead before they reach your stomach.”

Just then, the cannon fires. I whip around, expecting Peeta to collapse to the
ground, but he only raises his eyebrows. The hovercraft appears a hundred yards
or so away. What’s left of Foxface’s emaciated body is lifted into the air. I can see
the red glint of her hair in the sunlight.

I should have known the moment I saw the missing cheese. . . .

Peeta has me by the arm, pushing me toward a tree. “Climb. He’ll be here in a
second. We’ll stand a better chance fighting him from above.”

I stop him, suddenly calm. “No, Peeta, she’s your kill, not Cato’s.”

“What? I haven’t even seen her since the first day,” he says. “How could I have
killed her?”

In answer, I hold out the berries.

Categories: The Hunger Games