Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.
The 49th Annual Hunger Games collapses in on itself.
The female Tribute from Twelve does not make it to the actual start of the Games. She is blown up as the countdown reaches the fifteen second mark after she suffers some sort of a dizzy spell and loses her balance. The large step she takes to the side in an attempt to regain it is the last move that she ever makes. She is not the only one who appears to be unsteady on her feet. The girl from Eight wobbles so badly as she runs away from the Cornucopia that it actually saves her life when a spear is sent in her direction. The boy from Five is spared what likely would have been a decapitation when the girl from One has a sudden fit of coughing that drops her to her knees (the terrified looking girl from Nine seems to consider approaching the momentarily incapacitated Career with the knife that she has picked up several yards away before she seems to decide that running in the opposite direction is the better option). The Bloodbath is still a bloodbath but on a smaller scale than usual. There are still eighteen players in the Games when it comes to an end.
Far away and under the ground, reports are being drawn up on the topics of mutations and the evolution of viruses. Projections are once again the order of the day, and they are more carefully studied and prepared. Comments are bandied back and forth about decreased incubation times and what might be happening in homes and on streets that will never be made public to those on the outside. There are whispers of goals being reached and chances for improvement. There are backroom conversations about the possibilities of tweaking nature just a little and broadening out the scope of what has proven to be a way around impenetrable defenses. Other backrooms are buzzing with indignation at what they are seeing and hearing. The whispers in those speak of people who are untrustworthy and in need of monitoring. They plot removals from power, discuss mitigation of damage, and stress the necessity of not becoming what you fight. They are soon embroiled in their own turmoil and internal politics and have neither the time nor the inclination to stay abreast of everything that they have wrought in the world outside.
By day three, there are seven players with fevers high enough that they are obviously hallucinating. Lack of water (because they are simply too ill and lacking in clarity to go looking for it) has become the most likely killer for them in the arena. It is only a matter of time. The male Tribute from Twelve had actually appeared to have reached the point where his fever had broken. It was the post illness weakness that killed him when he slid into a creek trying to get a drink and could not find the strength to lift himself back out. The female Tribute from Three died from apparent asphyxiation when a coughing fit left her unable to drawn in any air. The little boy (a twelve year old) from Three is the only person in the Arena exhibiting no symptoms although the seventeen year old girl from Eleven does not appear to be much worse off than someone with a bad cold. Both of them have found places to hole up and seem to be fairly oblivious to what is going on in the rest of the Arena.
It's probably incredibly boring for the viewers - if there are any watching.
They aren't watching in Twelve. They are going through the motions of mandatory viewing times, but there are more pressing concerns for most of the populace. The Peacekeepers are forgoing the District Doctor altogether and handing out permission to skip required appearances in the Square right and left to anyone who even looks like they may be about to cough. They aren't sending patrols out to check up on people either. They are too desperate to avoid any chance at contamination. They are down to thirty percent of their force in a condition to be out and about and keeping order. They have a few members who are on the mend, but they have also buried three of their own.
In the rest of the District, the numbers are much worse. There were eighteen deaths on the second day of the Games alone. People are scared, people are angry, but they are too exhausted to do much about either. The ones who are not sick themselves are worn down with trying to keep up with the care of the ones who are. That state of exhaustion often leads to them taking sick themselves.
Maysilee has to live with knowing that she is the one who started it all.
The District Doctor caught her that night at the group home and ordered her to stay put in a far too late of an attempt to cut down on the spread (it was a pointless exercise as he had no authority to shut down the mines where the early stage sick took themselves every day too afraid of the consequences of a lost paycheck to stay home). She spent a miserable forty-eight hours dealing with the accusing looks and nasty name calling of the residents as she tried to make herself useful by hauling water and making a sorry excuse for broth and trying anything she could think of to keep the sick ones cool enough that there were no more incidences of seizures. It worked for some but not for others. Three more of the children had them, but only one ended in a repeat of the scene that she had first walked in on what felt like a lifetime before.
When the Doctor realized that she was not exhibiting any symptoms despite her repeated and lengthy exposure, he told her he was assigning her a job to do whether she wanted it or not. She asked to bring her foundling - knowing there was already too much work in the group home to go around. He sighed and looked at her reproachfully but eventually said that he didn't see why not. The little boy was fever free and only had the occasional cough lingering, but he was so tired that he resembled a newborn kitten more than he did a human boy.
Maysilee tries not to cry when the Doctor hands her a list of suggested remedies at the doorway of the apothecary and tells her that she is going to have to take it over because he has no chance of keeping up with everything all by himself.