Chapter 1
1
Run.
My feet take off before my brain is really aware of what's happening, and I'm tripping over various objects scattered around the Cornucopia: pots, packets of biscuits, a pair of shorts. The weapons will be closer to the Cornucopia itself, but I'm not going back there, and I'm sure the careers already have them anyway. I speed up, my heart beating crazily. I wonder if I'm being followed, and glance behind me. A largely built boy from District 3—Bolt, I think his name is—is hot on my heels, a dangerous glimmer in his eye and a bloody dagger held high in his right hand.
As I'm watching, surprise flashes across his face, and he stumbles to the floor. His dagger clatters, his face slams into the solid concrete of the ground that surrounds the Cornucopia. The sound of a cannon, like a thunderbolt, echoes around the arena. A thin silver sword sticks out of his back, and I gasp as a god-like figure leaps over the boy's fallen body and pulls the sword from his flesh. The figure is a silhouette against the sky, bleached golden by the sun. I hold my hand up against the glare and, distracted, my foot gets caught in some sort of clothing on the floor, and I trip up. The left side of my face smashes into the concrete, and I think I feel my nose break. I curse under my breath, sure that Bolt's murderer is hot on my heels, and my trip will cost me my life. But as the silhouette leaps over Bolt's body and looms over me, I hear it—or should I say, him—chuckle.
"Good luck, little bird," he whispers, "Time to fly away." And then he disappears into the mess of the battlefield behind me. I stare after him, feeling a little dizzy. Whoever the mysterious figure was, he possesses my mind long enough to keep me pinned to the ground for more time than I'd have liked. I shake my head and scramble to my feet, hugging the jumper I tripped over. Now I really have to get moving. I survey my surroundings: the bloody battle behind me, the sandy beach to my right, some kind of thick forest—a jungle, I think—before me, and the mysterious drop that I guess is some sort of valley to my left. I decide to go forward—the jungle will provide better cover than the beach or valley, and if it has animals in it, there must be a water source somewhere.
I'm not going to waste anymore time deciding—I fall into a sprint just as a second cannon explodes, the trees of the jungle suddenly seeming so far away. I can hear footsteps to my left, my right, behind me, chasing me. My heart is beating like a trapped bird, desperate to break free. The bloodbath behind me propels me forward. I just have to keep moving. We've barely been in the Games five minutes, and two of us are already dead.
"Just a little further . . ." I breathe heavily, forcing myself forwards even though my legs already ache. If I can just get to the jungle, climb a tree; stay somewhere safe for a bit. Then maybe I'll be alright. Then maybe I'll survive the night.
So I run and run and run, the line of trees that mark the entrance to the jungle seeming further with every step I take. Parallel to me, a blur races against me to reach the trees. We leap over a muddy track that marks the end of the concrete floor of the Cornucopia and, in line, we sprint until the mouth of the jungle swallows us. I collapse onto the soft, slightly moist floor, panting. I can't move, even though I know the careers are behind me. I just want to curl up here, and die painlessly.
Something about this arena reminds me of the first Hunger Games I ever remember watching. It was only five years ago, but as a child I'd never paid much attention to the Games. But this one stuck in my memory. It was the 32nd Hunger Games, and the arena was an endless open landscape, like a muddy marsh. As a nine year-old child, I watched the Games play out with tears in my eyes and a pain in my heart.
Three cannons, exploding all at once, remind me that I am in the Hunger Games now: I have to move. In an attempt to protect myself, I roll into a near by bush. It's literally buzzing with bugs—probably mosquitoes—but at least its cover from the others.
I don't know how long I lie there—a few minutes, half an hour, an hour—just listening to the sounds of the birds in the canopy high above my head and replaying the final moments of the 32nd Hunger Games. I think maybe I even fall asleep for a bit. But I'm not approached by careers, and the first sign of other human life are the two mud-crusted shoes that appear and start pacing back and forth past my bush. I panic at first, but then I realise the shoes are not aware that I am hiding only centimetres away. I try to breathe as silently as possible.
"How do I know I can trust you?" The owner of the shoes speaks, and I realise that whoever it is, they're not alone.
"You don't," replies another, quieter voice. My heart lifts suddenly, and hope fills me, because I recognise this voice. Oregano, my fellow tribute from District 11. I peer through the branches, desperate for a familiar face. With his short cut black hair, friendly eyes and dark skin, Oregano reminds me of home, and my family. He's beaten up, with fresh cuts across his arms, and new scars on his face, but it's still him. I'm tempted to burst out of my bush the moment I see him, but I stay back. I still don't know who the shoes belong to—it could be a career. Instead, I shift so I can watch Oregano. "But you need me," he continues. The curiosity about who he's talking to grows. "I can hunt. And kill."
"Who says I can't?" The shoes belong to a girl, I decide. She sounds old, maybe eighteen or nineteen.
Oregano blushes. "No-one, it's just . . ." Feebly, he holds up a cutlass he must have picked up at the Cornucopia. "You don't have weapons."
Silence. "I guess not. What do you want in return?"
"Nothing," he says, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot. Even I think Oregano's offering of an alliance and wanting nothing in return sounds dodgy, but after a while, the owner of the shoes agrees. I see her hold out a hand.
"Arro," she introduces herself.
"Oregano," he says.
I decide, now at least that there's no risk of a fight between the two of them, that this is as good a time as any to leave the safety of my bush and face Oregano and Arro. Taking a deep breath, I roll out and jump to my feet, clutching my jumper like a weapon and panting heavily. The world around me is quiet, and I wonder how long it's been since I ran from the Cornucopia. The two stare at me until I feebly murmur; "Um, hi,"
"Wren?" questions Oregano. "Is that you?"
His question makes me wonder how different my Capitol prep team has made me look, which worries me. I want my mother to be able to recognise me, and I don't want to die looking like someone I'm not. The idea sends a shiver through me. "Yeah, it's me,"
"Who are you?" demands Arro. Her appearance scares me: heavy eyeliner and mascara, thick arching eyebrows and long, flowing golden hair. She's pale, but this only enhances her stunning features. I blink as she glares down at me, feeling like a defenceless animal in the face of a great and powerful predator. Facing Arro, I want to crawl back into my bush and hide.
"This is Wren," Oregano answers for me. I'm paralysed by Arro's accusing glare, frozen to the spot. "She's the other tribute from District 11."
Arro looks me up and down. "What can she do?"
"Uh . . ." Oregano looks to me for help.
"I can . . . cook," I say, pathetically. "And . . ." I think desperately. "I guess I know some edible food, and stuff."
Oregano steps up for me. "No alliance without Wren,"
Arro pauses, but she must really need Oregano's cutlass, because she reluctantly agrees. She turns back to Oregano. "What now?"
He shrugs. "Find somewhere to stay for the night. Shelter, if possible."
"Let's go then," says Arro, without asking for my opinion. She sets off, her steps silent despite the mess of branches and leaves beneath our feet, and I follow clumsily. I make more noise than both Arro and Oregano put together, but at least I'm safe now.
We walk silently, Arro knocking branches out of the way with a stick she picked up, and Oregano slicing them as they bounce back. I wander along in their wake, kicking leaves on the floor and picking the vibrantly coloured flowers that droop from the magnificent trees. The flowers are pink and blue and green, and each are like small cups built from petals. I'm fascinated by them, by the delicate curve of their shape, and I think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen—too beautiful to be found in the arena. I decide to keep them, in case they're edible or could be used for healing, but also because I think their beauty will keep me sane in this horrible place. I realise that, while I was distracted by the flowers, Oregano and Arro have got quite far ahead. I sprint for a bit to catch up with them, my arm getting caught in a creeper plant that swings from the tallest branches as I go. I tug myself free, but the plant has a surprising grip on me, and leaves a swelling white whip across my left arm. I touch it lightly, and it hurts, so I pull the jumper I got from the Cornucopia over my head for protection from other creepers
"Keep up, Wren," calls Arro over her shoulder. I see her whisper to Oregano, and my cheeks burn. They're talking about me.
"Sorry," I call back. "Watch out for the creepers, though."
"Yeah, we are," replies Oregano, at an attempt, I think, to involve me in our rather odd alliance. I hurry now to keep up. Branches trip me up, prickly bushes bar my path, but I struggle on. Oregano and Arro seem to get further and further away, and as the light fades, the jungle seems larger and scarier and more dangerous. With every breath of wind and every snapped twig, my heart accelerates alarmingly. I wonder, again, how long it's been since the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, whether the careers have already turned their attention to tracking other tributes, to tracking us. The thought scares me.
Now it's almost completely dark, and the moon glows in the night. Creatures move in the bushes, and I think I see a creeper plant reach out to try and touch me. I flinch away from it.
"Hey, Arro," Oregano calls through the undergrowth. I panic, wondering if my suspicions about the careers are true, but Oregano sounds more surprised than alarmed. "Come see this."
Ahead, I see Arro turn off the path we're following, and race to catch up. She runs so fast and so silently, I suddenly wonder whether Arro is a career herself. Maybe that's why she formed an alliance with Oregano and I . . . so it will be easier to kill us when the time comes. I shake the thought out of my head, and I have to full-out sprint to catch up again.
We find Oregano at the edge of the jungle that starts to look a little more like a dense forest, staring intently at something. His eyes are wide with wonder.
"What?" I ask, before I turn, and my question is answered.
Standing before us, hidden in the tangle of the jungle, is a little cottage, the front door swinging open in the wind.
I've got two hours until the reaping, so I collect together all the money I've been saving, grab my holey old coat, and head out down to the market. I roll the cold, golden pennies over in my palm, remembering how I worked extra hours in the orchard to get them just for today.
It's early, and most people are still asleep. If it were a normal day, I might have liked a lie in myself, but I don't feel like it today. The people that are awake walk in the shadows, silent and unsociable. Even the baker, who hurries by with an armful of fresh bread, leaves out his usual "Good Morning!" as he passes. He doesn't even nod to me.
I reach the square, where all is mysteriously quiet. Usually, by this time, the streets would be bustling with people—heading to work, buying groceries, walking to school. But today I am the only person here. The clouds lie low, and I notice a cluster of birds hiding under the roof of the bakery, snuggling together for warmth. One of them, a little wren, calls to me, inviting me to join them. I wish I could.
I settle by the waterfall to wait for the bakery to open. The waterfall was a gift from the Capitol to District 11. Unsurprisingly, it's never worked. It was meant to be a beautiful angel, with water pouring in an arch from her mouth, but like I said, it doesn't work. Drops of water fall from the little cracks under her eyes. It looks like she's crying.
The baker comes to the door, and props it open. I jump to my feet and hurry over, getting my money from my pockets.
Inside, it smells of fresh bread. I take a deep breath. In my opinion, there's no better smell than freshly baked bread. The baker is an elderly man with a receding hairline and wrinkly skin. But there's a kindness about his face that appeals to me—I've always seen the baker as my friend.
I purchase three bread rolls—one for me, one for my mother, and one for my sister. I can only just afford it. They're warm in my hands. As I'm leaving, the baker speaks. He sounds tired. "Thank you, Wren," he says.
"For what?" I ask, frowning.
"No-one buys from me anymore," he sighs. "I'm sure to go out of business."
I turn and head back into the shop, placing my spare change on the counter. "Then you'll need this. Good luck to your sons, sir."
And then I leave.
As I head back home, I see the farmer boy, Oregano, leading his younger brother down to the market. I know him from school, so I smile, and he briefly smiles back. I shiver when I remember that we will both be in danger several times over in the reaping later today.
Above my head, two wrens begin to sing together. The song haunts me.
The cottage is small, but more than big enough to house the three of us. It's built with stone, and inside the walls and carpets are cream coloured. There's a distinctly homely mess of objects on the shelves and fireplace, and across the floor, too. I decide, almost as soon as I walk in, that I like it here. It smells like the fragrant fruits we forage in District 11.
On the ground floor, there's a small living room and a kitchen. The living room has a circle of chairs facing each other in the centre, and a coal fire is already alight in the fireplace by the stairs. In the kitchen, everything is eerily normal. There's milk in the fridge, water in the kettle, and the table is already laid out with knives, forks and spoons. The only thing absent is food. Arro, Oregano and I search the cupboards again and again for some source of food, but there is none. After, we inspect upstairs, which has two empty rooms, and a fire escape that leads to the back door.
"No food," states Oregano.
"No, but there is water," says Arro. "And we can always hunt."
We don't say it aloud, but all of us have decided to stay here. After checking the cupboards again for food, we collect together the bits and bobs we picked up at the Cornucopia: my jumper, Oregano's cutlass and a shiny knife, and a packet of cookies and an empty water bottle from Arro. Arro and Oregano discuss what to do with the weapons, whether to eat the cookies now, and other important things that they don't involve me in, while I go to fill up Arro's bottle. I turn the tap as far as it will go, but only a trickle of water comes out.
Once I've filled the bottle, I leave it on the side and find some glasses to fill with water for my jungle flowers. For now, I place them in the kitchen window. They're sadder now, drooping a little, and I feel bad. I plucked the beautiful flowers from their trees, took them from their home like the Capitol takes tributes from their districts. Does that make me a horrible person? I guess so.
Arro and Oregano finish talking, and we decide to go to bed. We divide the bedrooms between boys and girls, so Arro and I take the slightly larger room. I fashion my jumper into a pillow, and rest against it, even though I don't feel like sleeping yet. After a bit, Arro joins me.
Still unable to sleep, I lie silently in the dark, and suddenly remember about the faces in the sky—every night of the Hunger Games, the anthem plays, and the faces of the dead tributes are projected in the sky. Why hasn't that happened yet? I remember it getting dark earlier, as we were walking through the forest, and now it must be close to midnight. It should have happened ages ago . . .
As an answer to my concerns, a trumpet sounds, and Claudius Templesmith's voice fills the arena. Arro wakes, alert, her eyes golden like a cat's in the night. We stare at each other, listening.
"Um, as you may have realised," says Claudius, a little awkwardly, "we were unable to project the faces of the, uh, deceased tributes earlier today, due to a technical difficulty." Arro frowns. "The problem has been fixed, and we will project the faces promptly at midnight. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour."
The night goes silent.
"Did you guys hear that?" asks Oregano from the other room, as though there was a chance that we hadn't heard that.
Arro's face is locked in a deeply thoughtful frown, so I reply. "Yeah," I say, "we heard."
"We should go outside," says Oregano. "To watch."
Without another word, Arro and I follow Oregano downstairs and outside. Its cold, and the wind makes us shiver. The moon is the only light in the sky, but before long, the seal of the Capitol burns in the dark. The anthem plays. I sink to the floor, closely followed by Oregano and Arro, all three of us staring intently at the sky.
The faces begin. Both tributes from District 3—including Bolt; the girl, Elinor, from District 6; the girl from District 7; the boy from District 8; and the girl, Copper, from District 10. Then it stops. Six. That's it. Oregano, Arro and I exchange glances as the music plays again and the seal glows.
It has to be the least amount of tributes killed in the initial bloodbath in all of Hunger Games history, and it means there are still seventeen of us left—including all of the careers. We move back upstairs in a sort of detached trance, each dreading what must happen in the next few weeks. As we settle down for bed, I see tears sparkle in Arro's eyes, and I wonder who she's crying for.
14