Day Two

Mal

My eyes snap open and I, feel for my stick in the darkness before dawn.

"…down this way, I think."

"Wish we'd brought more food Tryst…"

"Careful you're stepping on my boots…"

I think the voices are coming from my right; I can hear the boy from District One, Tryst, the loudest and I think he's at the head of the pack.

My heart thuds and my mouth is dry; should I keep still and hope they walk past? Should I start running now and get a head start?

I can see the flickering lights of torches between the trees and I know now they are coming right towards me. The waterproof bag I took from the cornucopia is already packed and slung over my body so at least I don't need to worry about leaving my supplies behind; I roll onto my belly and, as quickly as I dare, shuffle away from the large group of strong tributes.

They come closer and I don't dare move anymore in case I make too much noise, instead, I huddle against a tree and try to slow my breathing. The group point ahead and, for a moment, I think they're going to walk straight past me…then I hear the first snap and resulting scream.

"Get it off me!" The girl from Four cries out in pain and anger, I can see her leg stuck in what seems to be a large dome, rising from the ground.

I can't help my curiosity and shuffle further forwards. The girl's ankle is trapped in the mouth of a large, green lizard with a dome shell and snapping jaws; I watch in growing horror as three more of the creatures emerge from the marsh and snap towards the her, one grabbing her elbow and another grabbing her left leg. Onedine and Tryst try stabbing and spearing the creatures, but their weapons are useless; the mutts' shells deflect their blades without blinking an eye. The girl screams and tries to defend herself but they unbalance her and I can see them, pulling chunks of flesh from her body and calling out in strange guttural sounds.

The other tributes share a glance and then, wordlessly, decide to leave the girl; they turn and begin a steady jog away from the creatures and deeper into the marshy forest. I shuffle back to the tree and sit with my back against it; looking around for more of the mutts and trying to block out the tortured shrieks of the District Four girl. I don't know how long it takes for the girl to die. One hour? Two? But I know she fights them with all her strength and the arena is fully lit with daylight when the cannon finally signals her demise.

When I eventually pluck up the courage to move from my tree, the hovercraft has already scooped up the girl's body and the domed mutts are nowhere to be seen. I steel myself and walk towards the scene of her death. The ground is too wet for bloodstains but I see drops on the leaves of the flowers and, if I close my eyes, I can hear the echoes of her screams. Nearby I spot a bag, an actual sturdy rucksack, which must've belonged to the dead girl and wasn't scooped up by the hovercraft; it has a few rips and one of the straps has been gnawed through but, otherwise, it's still perfectly serviceable.

Even more exciting are the supplies inside; I find another bottle of water, several pouches of grain, a pouch of dried pear slices, rolled up sleeping bag and, best of all, a large knife with a long blade and hard sheath.

My glee is interrupted by a loud bird call and, not wanting to run into anymore tributes or mutts, I tie the two halves of the backpack strap together, sling it over my shoulders and begin a quick march in the opposite direction of the strong pack.

Cass

My feet drag a little on the ground; I slept so poorly in the cramped roots of the tree that I ache and wince when I turn my neck. The ground is rich with plantlife and I try to forage as I walk, the place is alive with the sounds of wildlife and I decide to set snares tonight, the way Bates taught me.

Every now and again I stop, listening for a trace of voices on the breeze, I wish I had someone here with me…I wish Mal was here with me.

By noon I am tired and desperate for something more substantial than roots and leaves. I look around until I find a large elm with a sturdy, moss-covered trunk, high, wide branches and plenty of foliage; it's close to the surrounding trees and I think I can hide there. Next, keeping in mind where the tree is, I hike for a while until I think I have found a good place for snares and then look about for a tree with strong vines. I can see the snares clearly in my head, as clearly as when Bates showed them to me back in the training centre; but it's difficult to replicate them when I'm also looking over my shoulder every few seconds. It takes time….lots of time….but I manage to set four snares that, I hope, will catch something small. Maybe a rabbit, squirrel or even one of the little waterfowl I've seen running through the undergrowth; my mouth waters at the thought of meat.

I make my way back to the elm and climb up, high, into the branches. From here I can see trees running all the way to the horizon, a glint makes me think I can see the cornucopia but it could just be a trick of the light or my own imagination. Water cuts narrow paths through the trees and I can see patches of vibrant green where the soil has given way to marshland; the humidity reminds me of summer back in Eleven. I pull away some of the moss from the trunk and rest my head against the damp bark, watching for tributes and hoping for Mal.

Mal

I mix a pouch of grain with water in my metal pot and eat it cold as I hike. My new knife is slotted in my belt and I feel better for having it; I wonder a little what my parents think of me now, walking with a weapon that I would use to defend myself instead of picking crops in the fields.

Stopping to fill my water bottles I freeze when I hear a cannon…nothing emerges from the trees but I crouch down low anyway and wait a good while, just in case. My stomach rumbles and I stuff a handful of wild mint leaves into my mouth; the fresh taste dispels the remnants of yesterday's frog supper from my breath but does little to quell my hunger. I don't want to use another of my precious grain pouches so I tell myself to toughen up, stuff another handful of mint in my mouth, and look for a place I can rest tonight.

I reach a fast flowing stream and, once again, I am struck with the wetness of this arena compared to the near desert of last year's Games. The intense heat of day becomes a milder, muggy evening haze; I scoop up mud and paint it onto my face and neck. My dark skin is well camouflaged at night as it is, but the mud should help to discourage the clouds of gnats from biting me.

The anthem plays and the Capitol seal appears in the sky; I know there will be a picture of the Girl from District Four but I also see the boy from District Nine. I get the sleeping bag out of the rucksack but I'm reluctant to be trapped in it if another tribute comes by so, instead, I rest myself back on the rucksack, unzip the sleeping bag and wrap it around myself like a blanket. The sky is bright with stars and I'm glad my parents can still say their children are alive.