Twelve seconds.
That's all I have.
Twelve seconds.
They pass so slowly, enough for me to catch the eyes of my competitors. It's obvious they are just as scared as I am, some even more. Surrounding us is a grassy plain, extending to corn fields and woods. The loudspeaker booms again. Eleven seconds. I feel guilty already, as though I've already killed these people, that their faces are just pictures from my memory. I can smell the fear, the uncertainty, the weakness. All we know is that if we step off our platforms short of the buzzer, we die. That, and there is only one winner. Ten seconds. There are twenty-four of us - one boy and girl from each of the twelve districts. That means twenty-three of us will certainly be dead by the end of this. Equidistant from us sits a pile of bags, food, water, tools and weapons. My eyes lock onto a mace. I could take someone's head off with a great swing of those. There's a sword, as well.
Nine seconds. For a brief moment I contemplate throwing myself off the platform, ending my life now to avoid the torture of what is to come. Eight. My thoughts wander to Lynda. Will she be thinking of me? Will she be watching the screens intently, praying for my return? Or has she already given up on me? I guess I'll never know. Seven seconds. Six. Five, four, three, two, one.
Before I know it, my feet fly towards the passel, and I grab the mace. It's lighter than I expected. I take quick glances around me, checking for any attackers. The others have either taken to the woods, gone for the pile of goodies, or remained static atop their platforms. Without loss of pace, I snatch a pale blue backback from the pile, and head for the plains beyond, on my left, opposite the woods. Some hundred feet away from the platforms I stop and turn to assess the area. I am surprised that the first thing I feel is horror, as my apprehension was somewhat...overzealous. Needless to say, I am not unfamiliar to death, and war, and mutilation. I mean, the districts have just signed a peace treaty proposed by the Capitol, and the tension hasn't exactly worn thin. Not yet, at least. The bombs may have stopped dropping, but the resistance doesn't simply die out in an instant. Members of the rebellion are still being executed. But the bodies lying in the grass, some of which have already passed, others exhaling their final breaths, are of children. Not only that, but the circumstances of their deaths are not directly by the Capitol's hand. They are irrefutably responsible, but this is an act of cruelty, beyond what any child could conceive of even in the most brutal conditions. Children are murdering children. Their killers scatter, taking flight into the woods, or stay to fight over supplies. I leave them to resolve it. The names of the fallen tributes will be announced later this evening.
My place of refuge is a burrow just wide enough for me to fit, in the hillside. I'm still getting used to the darkness, being without any source of light except for the sun, which has already begun to set. To add to my apprehension, the temperature has dropped significantly, setting a chill that tickles my bones. Fortunately, I have an insulative sleeping bag to prevent heat from escaping my body. In the pack there are also two cans of baked beans, a strip of beef jerky, a pack of dried nuts and fruits. The Capitol hasn't made it that easy, though. Tomorrow I will need to find a water supply. Hours of searching around the area and I haven't come across a trace of it. Maybe if it rains, I can use some form of container or aquaduct to collect clean rainwater. Occaisionally I hear the heavy beating of a Capitol military helicopter thunder by, sweeping low over the land in search of any straggling tributes to pick off with a mounted mini-turret machine gun. Cracks of fire erupt at sudden intervals, followed by a cannon shot, indicating the death of another tribute. Playing by the rules of the game is only expected on our part - our hosts, however, are not subscribed to these rules. Just a way of demonstrating their overwhelming power. And I suppose, on a more sickening thought, for added entertainment. Feverish tingles run up the ridges of my spine. In the midst of the war unfolding outside, I realise this is going to be a long night.
The trumpets of Panem's national anthem signify the end of the helicopter massacre.
I wake to the sound of rain. It takes me a while to realise where I am. It is morning. Birdsong emanates from all around. The sun uncloaks the horrors of the playing field, the yellow-green sea interspersed with blemished, unsettled patches where they had fallen. The smell of blood is in the air. I feel the word worm its way around my lips, tickling the back of my throat. Murder. And there's something new. I may be seeing things, but the surrounding walls of the arena seem to have moved closer. Perhaps there are few of us left, and they're trying to box us in.