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JONES

6:53 AM - OCT 22

Ash on the ground.

Ash in the air.

Ash in my lungs.

My throat burns. The smoke smells like chalk and iron, tastes like acid in my mouth. The air is freezing. There's a gash on my arm, but I can barely feel it. I don't know what time it is, I can't see the sun. I don't know how long I've been walking—I just know I have to get to the bunker before sunset. Sunset is when they send over the nukes. I have to find the rest of the team, they've got to be here somewhere.

When did the last one drop? Half an hour ago? More?

I nearly trip over a bicycle lying on the ground. It was covered in so much pale ash that it blended in with the ground.

I step over it and try to keep a better eye on the road.

My breath billows into the chilly air as I walk. The city is deserted, not a soul in sight. They must've evacuated before the first one hit. Either that or they're lying cold somewhere under piles of debris and bleak gray ash.

Still, I keep looking for Grace. She promised she'd be here before me, she promised she'd find the rest of us. I can't remember the details of her instructions, my brain doesn't want to. There's a ringing in my ears and my stomach is churning.

I keep walking. Something's wrong with my ankle, it doesn't turn right. I've walked blocks and blocks now.

I can't recall the directions exactly, I just know I have to keep walking. The gnawing pain in my head won't go away. I think I hit it on something, just before I passed out. Hit it hard. It feels wrong, like something's missing.

The smoke smells acrid, caustic. The sky is cloudy and overcast, but I have to squint. Even the dim gray feels too bright.

The landscape is nice to look at—bleak skeletons of buildings, wreathed in white. Ash falls through the air like snow. It's very pretty here.

God, I'm tired.

I can feel a dull tingling in my legs, but nothing else. My body's been numb since I woke up. It's like—

There.

Out by those buildings in the distance. Movement.

There's someone else out here.

I hear something that echoes in the back of my head. Was that my name? Why was it so quiet?

I break into a run, ignoring my loose ankle. I left my heels behind in the building when I woke up. Good decision. It's hard enough to run over slippery ash as it is.

That voice again. Louder. It's definitely my name, I'm sure of it now.

Without warning, someone grabs me from behind.

I whip around, slamming my elbow into their face with a crunch. It was an instinctual reaction—I automatically step back and plant my feet in defense position. My ambusher is doubled over, clutching their face. I realize too late who it is.

"Callie! Oh. Oh, Lord." I rush to her and force her head out of her hands. Her nose is bleeding, but she looks alright otherwise.

"Dear god, Jones…" She coughs, and I can see the ash that coats her tongue. "I'm already half-dead, you don't need to finish the job."

Her voice sounds wrong. It's raspy like mine, and filled with ash, but it sounds too distant. She's a foot from me, I shouldn't be struggling to hear her.

"I think you broke my nose. You better pray that you didn't - the thing cost a fortune."

It sounds like we're underwater. Come to think of it, I hadn't heard a single thing since I woke up, before her voice. The city was evacuated, but there must have been sirens somewhere, there must have been planes overhead. Even my own footsteps were soundless.

The blast must have damaged my ears—that had to be it. I was unconscious when it happened, but the bomb must've hit hard. Hard enough to deafen me, at least temporarily.

"Oh god, I think it is broken. This isn't good at all."

Calpurnia Grace's accent is still lovely, even in that raspy, wheezing voice. A pretty District-One affectation, half Capitol and half something else. It's charming when you first get to know her, but unimaginably annoying after a while. Just like the rest of her.

"How did you find me?" I let go of her head and she immediately draws back. She has a thing with personal space.

"I saw you, darling. Middle-aged hispanic woman. Slightly overweight. Wearing an unflattering suit. Wandering aimlessly around in the middle of a city street, confused and slowly dying of smoke inhalation. All evidence points to Mrs. Rose Jones!" She grins and bats her eyelashes at me, ignoring the fact that she looks just as terrible after half an hour of walking through a hazard zone.

I scowl at her, but she doesn't pay attention. She's like this a lot. "We should get to the bunker. Where's everyone else?"

"Well. See, darling…" Grace coughs again. I can nearly see the ash coming out of her throat. "I was still at the police station, but the boys had left hours before me. And since those pesky bombs knocked out the network, I can't call them to find out where they are."

I don't respond for a second - she looks so different. There's mascara smeared on one side of her cheek, lipstick on the other. Her platinum blonde hair, always flawlessly done up, hangs half out of its clip in a tangled cloud. Her porcelain-doll skin is caked with dust.

"Well…" I trail off. My brain is still muddy and addled, my head still aching. I can't think straight, not since I hit my head. "We should get to the bunker. Maybe they're already there."

Mrs. Grace looks at me with something between confusion and concern. "Jones. Darling."

"What?" I ask, irritated.

"Do you… know where the bunker is?"

"Yeah, 'course. It's under that old apartment building on… the street. I can't remember the number."

"Thirteenth street, darling."

"Yeah."

She nods, slowly, like she's talking to a child. "And we're on one hundred sixty-fifth street."

"Oh," I say quietly.

"Yes…" Grace trails off.

There's silence for a second. Ash floats through the air like snow.

"That's… far." My voice still sounds wrong.

Grace sighs. "It would be a breeze if we had a car, darling. But on foot? No. No, it would be hours."

"Then what're we going to do?"

She looks at me again, wheezing. "Well," she coughs. "I thought you would have come up with something."

Slowly, I shake my head. She doesn't seem too disappointed - it's like she was expecting it. But that little bit of hope, that little glimmer in her eyes, it's gone.

"When does the last bomb drop? The nuke, I mean."

"Not too long now. Only forty-five minutes or so." Grace tries to run a hand through her hair, but it catches on tangles. "The… eh… They're going to want to take out the first aid crews, and the other rebels that are coming to help. If they wait to long to drop the nuke, the rest of them would be gone."

"That's their thing, right? The Capitol's thing. That, uh, one-two punch."

Grace nods, rubbing her bare arms. She's wearing a stylish blouse and a pencil skirt, hardly suitable for the situation.

"It's, uh. It's cold out here. Pretty cold for September, right?"

Grace pauses. She stares at me with a weird look on her face. I can't see what she's thinking. "September? Jones. Darling. It's October twenty-second."

"What?" I squint at her. The light's too bright. "No. It's… it's… Is it October?

She's tapping her foot. She looks tense now. "Jones, what's my middle name?"

I roll my eyes and scowl at her. I can't deal with her nonsense now, my head hurts too much. "I don't know! You never told me."

"I told you two days ago."

"Oh. Well, I forgot."

"Jones, what's your middle name?" Her lips are pursed, her stare intense.

"I…" I pause. I know my middle name. I know I do. I just… can't think of it. "It starts with an M!" I say decisively.

"Jesus, Jones!" Grace yells. "You hit your head, didn't you?"

"No…" I lie.

"Yes you did. I saw you rubbing it earlier. You're feeling nauseous, right? And irritable? You're even squinting! For gods' sake, you're concussed!"

I make a point of not squinting at her, even though the light's hurting my eyes. I know what's happening now. Grace does this a lot. When someone's hurt, she gets mad at them. She can't help it, she just doesn't like it when people know she's worried. And she is worried right now. She's trying to hide it, but she is.

"Jones? Rose Maria Jones, are you there?"

Maria. That was it. Damn, I know that.

"Yes. I'm… I know. I'm concussed. Sorry."

"What? No, don't apologize! It's not your fault you're too stupid to tell me when your brain's swelling up."

"Really? Cause you're talking like it -"

"Just…" She takes a deep breath. "Okay. I'm very sorry for getting angry. You're injured. I should not be doing that. I apologize."

I know she means it, 'cause her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are creased and she's not trying to be all sweet and smiley like she does when she's lying.

I sigh. "It's weird, Grace. Most people feel sorry for someone who's hurt."

She huffs in a haughty accent, if huffs can have accents.

"Well, I'm—" Abruptly, she stops. Her eyes are focused on something way over my shoulder.

"Grace? Callie, what is it?"

Without warning, she breaks into a sprint. She nearly shoves me out of the way, and when I regain my balance, I can see what she's running to.

There's a truck rolling through the ashy street a few blocks down. Its white paint is chipped and dirty, but the symbol of Panem is still visible on the door. It's a military truck. Capitol military.

"Oi! Hey! Over here!" Grace is jumping up and down now, shouting at the top of her lungs. Without thinking, I run to follow her.

For a few seconds, I don't think the truck sees us. It keeps rolling along the brick-strewn asphalt at the same speed. Just when I think it's going to pass behind the next building and leave us behind, it brakes abruptly.

Grace stops shouting and runs faster, hurdling debris like a professional. She's thin and willowy, and I'm built nothing like her. I'm heavier and not nearly as agile, but at least I'm strong enough to push that stack of crates away instead of climbing over it.

We reach the truck in what seems like seconds, and by the time I arrive, Grace is already at the window. The driver is a young man, and he seems straight, judging by the way he's smiling at her like an idiot. Thank God for that. Even with her hair undone and her makeup smeared away, Grace has enough charm to convince someone to jump off a building.

"We thought we were going to die!" she says in her pristine accent. "I was so scared, you wouldn't even believe!"

The driver nods, enraptured. Past him, I catch a glimpse of an older man with a buzzcut and a scar across his face. They're wearing the same uniform, but I have a feeling that the older guy is the one calling the shots. He's staring at Grace too, but with suspicion. He glances over to me and our eyes meet. Neither of us say a word, but we seem to be thinking the same thing—that boy in the driver's seat doesn't know what he's got coming.

"Oh, darling! Thank the Lord above that you found us, it must be divine miracle!" Grace croons. I roll my eyes. I know for a fact she's a staunch atheist. She must've caught a glimpse of the cross strung around the boy's neck. I'm a bit surprised, even though I know better. Sometimes I forget how much of a pro she is at this. Sometimes I forget that she can change herself so easily.

"So… please, darling? I know you're not supposed to, but… can you make an exception? For me?" She clasps her hands, subtly pushing up her cleavage.

I doubt she even needed to—Army Boy is already convinced. He can barely open the door fast enough.

She smiles bashfully as he climbs out and opens up the back seat for us. He offers a hand to help Grace into the truck, and her cheeks turn pink when she takes it. God, she can even blush on command. Stone cold pro.

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.

.

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"… And that's how I got into modeling! Fascinating, isn't it!"

We're five minutes into the drive, and I'm beginning to regret coming along. I can hear only Grace's side of the conversation from behind the back seat, but I'm getting a fine picture of what's going on. They're taking us to that old apartment building on thirteenth street, where they think Grace's beloved father is. But they have to cover the rest of the precinct first, to make sure there aren't any survivors left behind.

"Oh, of course, darling! For the record, those casting directors had no idea what they were talking about." Their conversation is insufferable even from back here.

The driver says something else, and Grace breaks into pretty peals of laughter. They can't hear it, but I groan.

The truck hits a bump, and shoots a wave of pain through my ankle. The others can't even feel it, they're sitting on nice comfy seats. I wish I was too, but Army Boy made me lie down in the space behind the back seat, with a bag of ice on my head and a foul-smelling tank top covering my eyes. He said it was all they could do about my concussion.

I have to admit, the young man had been very attentive to me since I got in the truck. Maybe it was an act of human kindness. Or maybe it was the fact that Grace had described me as such a 'loving, supportive, adoring mother, to whom I owe everything in my life'.

Mother. God damn it, we're the same age.

The truck hits another bump, and I feel queasy.

"Pardon me, but doesn't that radio say 'Emergency Broadcast', darling?"

"Oh!" I can hear the boy's exclamation from back here.

He says something else, and Grace laughs. "Yes, I think that would be a good idea, darling."

The volume on the radio is switched back on. I didn't know those things had a mute option.

"… ernment of Panem, murder, conspiracy, and treason. If seen, please report immediately," the broadcast finishes, the beginning of its sentence cut off.

"It will repeat, won't it, darling?" Grace asks. The driver replies with something that sounds like a yes.

"Repeat. Emergency alert," it begins again, in a raspy, commanding voice filled with static. "Troops in the red zone of District Three are advised to be on lookout for a white female, mid-forties, blonde hair, blue eyes, last seen wearing a white shirt and gray skirt. Most likely accompanied by a hispanic female, mid-forties, last seen wearing a white shirt, black skirt, and gray blazer. Both have been spotted in the area."

I can only see her shoulders and the back of her head, but I know she's gone. Charming, smiling Callie has fallen away, and only Mrs. Grace is left now. Her shoulders are raised, her muscles tense. She leans down nonchalantly, pretending to fix her skirt. As she does, she puts something on the floor and silently kicks it towards me.

It's a gun.

The broadcast continues. "… These women are wanted for terrorism, disturbing the peace, inciting a riot, assault, aggressions against the government of Panem, murder, conspiracy, and treason. If seen, please report immediately." The broadcast dissolves into static and then cuts out.

There's silence for a moment. Then the sharp, unmistakable click of a gun's safety switching off.

"Alright, boys." Grace's voice is cold now. "I'm going to need you to step out of the car."