"Seven...six...two...one!" I bolted.
I ran, I panted, I hurried away from the beautiful Cornucopia and "booked it" for the hills.
Where's my district partner? I can't see him anywhere around the Lake. We had made a deal; he'd stick with me until supplies got low. Then we'd split up and rough it in the woods, if there were any. There's woods here for sure.
Did he make it out of the melee? When will the cannons fire? I need water now. The only thing I snagged before fleeing was this pair of boots. They're loose. My small feet are swimming in them.
Pine needles fix that problem, sort of—they wiggle around and shift to different parts of the inner shoe, jamming between my toes and sticking into my socks. I scramble into a clump of bushes to hide myself while I rearrange the annoying clumps.
Is there a brook nearby? I need water to survive—I can't think clearly right now—I'm panicking—I'm terrified. Wait—I can't stop thinking about I, I, I. My twin's watching me cower in a bush. She needs to know that I'm alright, that I'll make it past the first day. Will I?
Terror's forcing all rational thought from my head—hysteria's threatening to overwhelm me. Where's the mask of collected reserve that I summoned up for my interview with Caesar? That girl was quiet but intelligent, clever, and sly.
She's not here, I can tell you that now. She's still panting in a bush, shutting her eyes tightly and rocking back and forth, wishing that she were anywhere but here. The audience must loathe me for my lack of control. I'm ordinary, expendable, not powerful, not impressive. I'm going to die...
Breathe, Elaine. Stop rocking. They'll find you if they spot the bushes shaking. Stop. Keep breathing. No, don't breathe! You're breathing too fast! Slow down! Relax! Calm down! Elaine, you're going into histrionics! Your teeth are chattering! Stop chattering, teeth! Breathe! You must breathe! No good. Your vision's fading. You're hyperventilating, Elaine. Calm down. Calm down, I say! You must be strong for Rylla!
…
…
…
…
Stop shaking. Relax your clenched fists. Sit up straight. You're still curled up now. Loosen your arm muscles. They'll cramp if you hug your knees any longer. Your legs are trembling. Your whole body is shaking. Breathe.
You must take a moment to think. There's still a chance that you can stay alive in this game. Water first. Then food. You know a few edible plants. Think. Find roots, find what berries you can.
Find a tribute who has food. Bargain with them. Ally with them. Do what it takes to live.
My hysterics die down minutes later. I'm choking on silent sobs of anxious terror. I'm too young to die here like a hunted beast. Wake up, Elaine. This nightmare will end when the sun comes up, won't it?
My realization is that I'm lost. My crazy trek from the Cornucopia and the Lake led me across a small field into dense shrubs, and I'm now sitting under a leafy, broad-trunked tree close to the beginning of the forest.
No one's in sight, but I can tell that the birds further down the hill in the direction of the Lake are quiet.
The screams from the bloodbath died down a while ago; now an uneasy stillness rests over the Arena. The next spurt of conflict ought to happen anytime this day or tomorrow, before everyone gets settled in and figures out their game plan.
Let them hack away at each other; I'm too disgusted by the thought of ripping into a person's arm. I'd rather use my brains to survive.
Examining my nail-marked hands—it seems that I was digging into them with my nails when I was going through my breakdown—it's plain to see that they're attached to skinny arms. Not muscular, not sturdy. The fingers are long and just as slender as my wrists. Hands that routinely assemble electronic bits and pieces to form other electronic devices that fit into bigger systems.
This is it. I'm doomed. I can't forage, I don't know plants, I almost failed the edible plants test, I, I, I. All these failings of mine. Where will I start? Sorry, Rylla. Elaine's woefully unprepared for this. All of her inner reserves of practicality have deserted her. This is going to be agonizing...
It took an agonizing eight or nine hours for me to calm down. By the time the sun started setting, I had gathered a few pine cones and a few other nuts. Most of my time was spent scampering about in the general direction of the forest, staying close to the forest's edge for light's sake.
Didn't find any water. Spent the twilight hours panicking, seeing a knife blade's gleam in every flash of sunlight let in through the forest branches. Saw a tribute bearing down on me whenever a shadow crossed my face. Thought I was going insane because I kept hearing my sister's voice in my head, all the things she said to me before the Peacekeepers escorted her out.
It'll be alright, Elaine. You're smart. The other kids have trained their whole lives to wield a weapon, not their minds. If you can outmaneuver them, I bet you can make it. I love you. Mama and I will be watching you. Play your best.
My best. Doesn't have to be dazzling. Just show the audience that I'm smart enough to make it for a few days on my own, make the best of my situation.
No water the first morning. Woke up to birdsong around what I guessed was three thirty in the morning. The overly-cheery birds were up before the sun, but the sun too was up before me.
I had shivered myself into an in-and-out stupor of a sleep sometime after the anthem of Panem. Had woken up groggy and depressed. The paralyzing fear of yesterday came back in subdued force when my dazed brain remembered where I was.
Spent the first five minutes of my very early wakening clutching my arms, pulling my jacket close to my miserable self. Crawled out from under the bramble bush—truly, it had wicked-looking thorns; my hedge of protection—and spent another five or ten minutes drinking dew from the long, wide blades of grass.
Advantage of Elaine over rest of tributes: light sleeper, therefore likely to wake up every morning early enough to harvest the dew. Yes, I'm being bitterly sarcastic, for as everyone in Panem can see, my prospects aren't cheery just yet.
Those nuts that I consumed last night were sweet and filling. I should go back and gather more. I remember where the trees were. The pine nuts weren't filling though, and it was too much work to gouge them out of the cones. Am I desperate enough?
My overactive imagination's not serving me well—the relative darkness of the Arena is encouraging thoughts of wolves and other beasts—ridiculous thoughts, I hope. One year the tributes had to fight lion-like mutts in order to get to the game-laden forest...
Cautiously walking towards the Lake is my plan: I intend to scout around, locate the Careers, head in the oppositedirection, maybe snitch supplies. If there are too many of them, I'll have to back off. Which Careers survived the bloodbath? I can't remember.
The low and tense muttering amongst a group of people alerts me to the approaching Careers. There's the tall boy with the sword and the beautiful girl with a silver bow. Will she shoot me on sight if I'm spotted? They're fanning out, all of them, combing the area.
It looks as if they're making a perimeter sweep of their turf before heading back. I'm huddled in a bush (again) and can't tell if I'm visible. I need to see what they're doing...
My stomach is pinching right now. Can't wait it out if there's no fuel to helpme out. The tall boy barks something at a shorter boy and they head back towards the clearing beside the Lake. Whew. I'm alive still. My flaming hair doesn't blend in well with the scenery, I imagine.
The Careers have pitched their sleeping bags several meters away from their supplies. Half of the supplies are heaped in a large pile. Sneaking around to another clump of bushes at the top of a small slope, I can watch them all from afar. They're eating breakfast even though the sun just barely brushed over the treetops. It looks like they want to go hunting. For tributes.
One boy's stacking boxes onto the other small and medium boxes in what must be the main pile. Most of the Cornucopia's loot isn't wrapped up. Two sleeping bags are in their carrying bags. A sack of something rests against a folded blanket. A single kerosene lantern's on its side. Some sort of tool is lumped in with knives and a few nails. No food yet.
The pretty one, Glimmer, flicks an insect from her knee—she's sitting next to another Career and picking at breakfast. Are those biscuits? They're flat and palm-sized, spread with something dark-ish. Nothing's snatchable, though.
Will have to look more carefully—if they all decide to go out hunting, the camp will be easy pickings for the other tributes in the area. However, the Careers aren't stupid; they probably have considered this, which is why some sort of trap/alarm system will be set up. Too bad.
But before they can finish their breakfast, I back away and retrace my steps to my sleeping bush. My boots, it seems, make almost undetectable tracks, even on dirt. I have to watch out for soft dirt and short grass, though, since even my slightest prints couldn't be completely undetectable.
The fear's coming back now that I know that they're got the Lake. I can't travel far without food and water, and if they guard their sources zealously...combined with their strength in numbers, their camp is unbroachable. Still, my whining stomach compels me to head back along a different route to lessen the likelihood of accidentally stamping out a clear trail.
Watching the Careers is agonizing. They laugh and joke and practice their fighting moves with each other. No need to stand guard—the crippled one's rewiring and activating the mines.
My eyes are wide as I watch him plant them tenderly as a gardener plants seeds—he's placing them at specific intervals at the edges of and at certain points within the clump of supplies.
One giant pile of supplies rests in the mid-morning sun. The mines are live now; the other Careers have stopped laughing and are watching the boy warily and slightly worriedly. He knows exactly what he's doing, though, and makes it back to them alive.
All of us watch as he gestures and explains the path that they need to take to get to certain sections of the supply mound. He demonstrates once again, elaborating upon a simple path that will lead to all sections if taken precisely without blunder.
He says that you'd have to be pretty dense to stomp even slightly on a mine, though; he claims that the spacing gives generous clearance to their pack but not, obviously, to an overconfident dumb tribute that will make a quick, uncalculated dash towards the pile.
The Careers whoop and clap him on the back. One of them tests it out a bit nervously, but with the boy's instruction, makes it out easily. My eyes have been riveted to their footwork: I think that I can reconstruct their steps!
Time to go hunting, Careers. Leave whenever you feel like it: I'll not trespass long.
They don't leave. Well, not all of them, yet. They wait until mid-afternoon. Blast it.
Over the next couple of days, they're gone here and there, though, and I finally feel brave enough to approach their Camp. They like to hunt closer to nighttime with those funny glasses. They come back after a few hours. I wonder who they're stalking?
Right now, they've just jogged away with their canteens and a few cracker packages. I'm alone with my thoughts. Let's try this out.
Shall I make a mad dash for the Lake and hide in the rushes to check the surroundings to be sure? Should I then, if all's clear, find a canteen? Water or food? I'm parched. I'm hungry. Food. Then I can wash it down with water.
But what about iodine? Is there something to purify the water?
My foot has poked out of my short, round bush and then two shouts ring out.
No! They're coming back! The crippled boy's been sent back to guard the camp. Stupid me; I forgot that he can't run. Then where was he these other nights when the camp was unguarded? Was he a scout taking shifts with the others while only three of them went out hunting?
I'm back in my bush completely. You won't even see my hair—I've got my hood on and have sunk to my knees in a crouch, peering at the boy through the almost-bare lower branches of the bush. He's bored but still looking in my general direction. My stomach's making noises.
He's on his feet now, limping towards the Lake. Not facing my direction. Now he's pacing. Something's bothering him. He mutters a couple of names and throws a pebble into the Lake. I'm stuck in this bush for another two hours before he dozes off. It's a light sleep, I can tell.
My nerves are all edgy again and I can hear Rylla's voice in my head chanting "Careful, careful!" in her practical manner. Yes, I'm careful. I'm sly, I'm elusive, you don't see me, you can't hear me, I'm walking backwards towards more forest...
Snap!A twig's in two under my feet. It was a dry twig too, and thick enough to make quite a sound. I'm frozen—my head's screaming at me to run before the boy wakes up fully. I can't run: I'm paralyzed and stiff with soreness and fear. The boy's not up.
I wait several agonizing moments to confirm that his doze is heavier than I thought.
Sneaking towards another part of the woods is my next move—the Careers will be back in a couple of hours and I need to relieve myself and find more nuts and maybe some berries. Will try again tomorrow.
"Marvel! Hurry up!" "Is Lover Boy with us still?" "Refill the canteens!" They're back.
I'm far from the camp. Their scouting perimeters doesn't reach out this far—they're concerned primarily with a fifty-yard radius and that's about it. All of them roll out their sleeping bags and take turns at first watch, second watch...
They wake early, arrange their belongs, eat a big meal, talk strategy in growls accented with menacing laughter. Bloodthirsty.
The crippled boy's still left to guard the camp. I've already collected my morning dew. My stomach has long-since resigned itself to a dull, fierce ache rather than obnoxious grumbling and stabs of pain. My vision's dull and my senses are fuzzy by now. It's been a few days since the beginning of the Games, and I've subsisted thus far on nuts and these blueberry-like fruits.
I've had to wait for the camp guard to hike off for obvious reasons before I've dared to approach the Lake.
Today I have to test out my memory of the Steps. The boy's gone temporarily—I've got five minutes at the most. The coast is clear—it seems that the majority of the non-Careers are in the forest, far from the Cornucopia. My lifesaving boots tread lightly over the green grass and dainty wildflowers.
The golden horn is to my left. The pile is high and full. Locate the lantern. Stand next to it on the right. Three small steps right, two forward, one medium step kitty-corner, one left, aha! A backpack of crackers and dried meat. I stuff my jacket pockets with one small pack of each. Nice shiny labels.
Two steps right, one tiny one forward, all the way to the left until you hit the spare canteens. How many canteens? Three. Blast. They'll notice if one's missing.
Rustling. Twigs snapping. I'm this close to making a sprint back towards the woods in sheer panic—only the very real presence of those mines prevents me from exploding towards the nearest opening in the woods.
It takes all of my self-control and memory to make it back out of this touchy labyrinth to the safety of the woods. And then I move faster, trusting the shelter of the underbrush to hide my progress.
Dinner: two one-by-three-inch pieces of thick, smoky jerky. Three crackers that seem to be made of enriched grain with added minerals. The package label says "Hiker's formula." Good for me, then. And nuts of course.
That night I circle around the perimeter of the camp and nestle into some bushes two hundred yards from its edge. I can look down from the slight incline and see a bit of the horn and the Lake, and part of the supply pyramid. Part of me wonders if I'm too close.
Yes I am. I wake up to the sound of footsteps. I'm instantly alert and still as a stone, almost. They're walking towards me noisily. One girl is complaining to another person about how Twelve is still in those forests.
"Cato's going to lead us into the woods after lunch. We need to pack our sleeping bags, canteens, and food for two meals. It'll take a day of walking uphill and downhill since the terrain seems to be roughening out."
How many are going? "We're all going except for Mine-Man. He'll be fine at camp. It's us, a couple of other kids, and Twelve. Lover Boy's going to help us with her." I'll bet. I've seen him up close. He'll probably lose you all in the woods. He's smart.
They go. I stay. "Mine-Man" stays also, grumbling and muttering nervously in an undertone while I wait for him to wander off to do his business or scout the perimeter again. Poor guy. He must be as bored as I am hungry. Again.
I finish my dried meat and crackers after they've been gone for about an hour. Smoke starts rising from over the hills, from the forest. The camp guard looks frightened and uneasy. He swears when part of the forest, a small speck in our vision, goes up in orange and gold. The fire seems to be heading in a certain direction—it's coming back towards the Cornucopia. Will it overtake us?
No. After fifteen minutes of intense flare, the forest fire subsides unnaturally quickly.
My stomach is rumbling again and I'm lightheaded from lack of water beyond dew. At this rate, I'll have one meal a day with two snacks—nuts and berries. And dew. How long will that sustain me?
I'm now more worried about my stomach than about being discovered by the Careers.
The camp guard and I wait for the Careers anxiously. He's biting his nails and fiddling with his jacket hood's drawstrings. I'm clutching my pounding head and waiting for a yea or nay, a sign to proceed with my thievery.
It's nightfall and no one's back. The guard—I'll call him something nicer than "Mine-Man" and more personable than "camp guard"—went to sleep. He couldn't help it. I was delighted, however, and the apple, jerky packet, protein bar, and long drink from the Lake vastly improved my optimism about the evening's prospects.
Around dawn, I'm up, unable to sleep in even the faintest bit. The sky's bright and clear, the air cold. From yet another vantage point, snuggled into ivy, I'm clutching my stomach. Sharp pains.
Is something wrong? My stomach's cramping unnaturally; it's aching as if I'm hungry, rather than full. In my famished haste, I devoured everything except for the protein bar. Maybe my haste was my stomach's undoing. I roll onto my other side, curled up.
The pains intensify. What is my body trying to tell me? I stagger down to the Lake gracelessly, trying not to whimper as cramps double me over. I've flopped onto my side, curled up tighter than before, overcome by cramps and dizziness.
My head's spinning. I'm seeing the hills fly about, the outline of the trees undulating...
I must have blacked out, because I'm now awake with a sense of blankness. Am I in danger? Should I be frightened? I can't tell; my head's foggy.
A bird takes off from the Lake. I peer at the edge of the water grasses-the Lake's calm. I'm fine. I can do this. I can sit up slowly and take deep breaths. The cold water feels wonderful on my throbbing head.
I need to remember to drink more often. Rylla always told me that a person needs water before they need food. That water's the number one priority. That the body can survive longer without food than without water. She also told me that dehydration causes headaches.
Note to self, Elaine. Drink as frequently as possible.
My stomach's not clenched up and screaming at me anymore-my senses are instead: every stab directed at my tired skull, every shiver of my cold limbs, the drag of smoky air that has drifted our way stinging my eyes. Can't think. I gulp more water.
Can't take it anymore; need a canteen. Outlasting my enemies isn't turning out well for me other than being not dead. Can I stand up without falling? Will my stomach start churning? No, I'm fine. I walk towards the supply pyramid in a roundabout manner.
Avoid the sleeping boy-his lame leg twitches constantly. A nerve tremor? Call me lame, but I'll name him "Twitch." Better than "Mine-Man." Walk around the axes. No hatchets for me. I render the steps of my dance as quickly, quietly, and precisely as I can. A handful of dried red fruits-cranberries? They're small. Two dried peaches. They're sweet-smelling and soft. I bet they taste like summer. One canteen. The smallest one there.
A real loaf of bread! No; put it back. Put it back. Let it go, Elaine. Set it down. No! It's life. I can go two days with this one loaf! No. No. No? I need it. You wantit, I can hear my not-desperate side of my head reprimanding me.
My skinny body has lost several pounds in the past four days. I need the protein as badly as I need rest and warmth and water. I stand there like a brainless sheep, staring at the loaf in my hand. It's Capitol bread. Soft and crusty. Dry and slightly stale by now, but not much. It has been sealed in a plastic wrap of some sort, resting next to several other loaves.
How long until they consume the rest of the loaves? Wouldn't it be better for me to take one now and maintain extra caution in case they figure out that it's missing? Will Twitch die if they think he ate it? They're not dumb. I bet someone counted the loaves, took inventory. Seven similarly-wrapped loaves. Eight in total. Identical in size.
Wait-Elaine, think. You could take all of them and travel as far as possible and hide. If you found water, you'd be fine. They wouldn't know who had taken the bread. It's life, Elaine!
Too late to scoop them all in my hands: horrible screams are coming from the direction of the fire-scorched acre or so of forest. I can hear someone scream "To the Lake!" and I'm almost frozen, paralyzed, with terror. My self-preservation instincts kick in and I mechanically force myself to carefully trace back my steps.
Flee to the woods. Run! They're allcoming back, unless something awful has happened.
I count three so far: Cato, the other boy, a girl. Lover Boy's not in sight. I can hear Cato screaming and thrashing-he's at the edge of the Lake. Everyone else is screaming and wailing and crying out-nothing's following them or attacking them, but they're clearly terrified.
They all suddenly jump into the Lake-a swarm of insects is all over camp. Twitch dives into the water and submerges with the rest of them. The insects leave after a minute-they're groggy from all of that smoke, I imagine.
I'm back in my patch of ivy, frantically covering myself with the leaves in an attempt to camouflage myself. The insects leave me alone-they must think that the tributes have drowned.
Of course they haven't, but it takes Twitch precious minutes to drag them all out of the Lake since they're convulsing and half-drowned. What's driving them mad? Cato's growling and thrashing, screaming until his lungs are empty, sinking back onto muddy banks into oblivion. His chest gently rises and falls, his fists clenching and unclenching.
The other boy has passed out too. He's quieter than the girl, who is clutching at her arm-a huge lump is swelling on it. A lump? Tracker jackers! That makes sense to me now!
My dulled senses aren't dull enough to leave me without a sense of horror and pity-the Careers are hallucinating. Their worst fears are being played out in their dreams.
Twitch is exhausted over the next two days. They're out cold. He faithfully guards camp and tries to apply medicine to their swollen lumps but they refuse to heal. Cato's in the worst shape. He's awake now and then. His eyes are wild.
I'm perched in a tree, hidden by broad leaves. I've been up in this tree during afternoons, retreating to a different clump of bushes each night. Mornings are my luckiest time of day-Twitch collapses into his sleeping bag around midnight or one and sleeps in until the sun's pretty high in the sky.
I don't snitch any more food though; I use the time to fill my canteen and sneak away towards the hills. Still am forced to resort to berry-gathering and nut-picking: if I take too many supplies from camp, Twitch'll catch on. If I don't find nuts, my stomach will cramp up again from lack of food and protein.
It's mostly empty again, my stomach. But at least, with Twitch asleep and the rest of the tributes-four?-at large in the Arena, I can scurry around the woods in relative safety until noon.
Food level's lower and lower, though. I don't like to think about what will happen in the following days. My initial optimism about the supply pyramid's dimming-Cato's not any more coherent.
The other boy's recovering slowly, shaking and raving to himself about someone named Lynx. No one's eating anything except for Twitch and the boy-Marvel? I can't risk taking anything.
What did happen to Lover Boy? Was he killed by the tracker jackers?
Cato's better on the second evening: that means a small break for Twitch. Everyone's miserable, but alive. Marvel's in better shape than Cato, so he and Twitch take turns checking up on camp and guarding the perimeter.
The girl practices hurling her knives. They land in the dirt, on a branch, in the heart of an apple, with deadly finality: she only missed once in all of her practice throws. If she's this deadly when recovering from tracker jacker venom, she's got to be a terrorwhen she's completely alert and well.
All I think about now is food, about the Capitol's dumplings, about shrimp fried and breaded, about pork cubes in spicy sauce, about fresh apricots that smelled heavenly, about grapes that were close to bursting. No food left-I snitch another bit of jerky around nightfall and almost get caught by Marvel.