Day Eleven
Deep sleep doesn't hold me for more than a couple of hours; once my initial weariness wears off I snooze then awake regularly in grips of panic that I might've missed the feast. Any residual tiredness I feel has ebbed and, by the time the sky is full of indigo streaks that predict the coming dawn, I have already eaten the last of my dried beef, drank a bottle of water and found a way of relieving my bladder without having to stand up and reveal my location.
Come on, come on, come on… I mouth the words silently, ready for whatever is going to happen; my machete is gripped in my right hand and I rise up out of my hiding place, rocking on the balls of my feet at the edge of the treeline.
The sky lightens and brightens, it moves through shades of red and orange until a pale yellow illuminates the huge pond where I stood, a little over a week ago, and lost sight of Cass in the bloodbath. I chew my lip and wonder what's taking so long; the feast was meant to start at dawn so what are they waiting for? The cornucopia is easily reachable from here, should I wade through the water and see if I've missed something on the other side?
I'm just working up the courage to sneak forwards and take a closer look when a long, metal block rises up from the water, piled high with the same style of waterproof bags that Cass and I found on the first day. This is unfair! I could fight my way in there for a bag containing nothing useful!
I can't waste anymore time; I start to splash forwards, I'd imagined myself sprinting through the shallow water but, instead, I lurch with an uneasy gait. My eyes flit side to side and I manage to get my left arm through the string of a bag when I feel a stabbing pain in my calf; the boy from District Four is lying in wait under the waterline and now his knife sticks in my leg. I react with a shout as he pulls out the weapon and I stamp down on his face, but he moves swiftly, and soon his huge frame looms over me. The bag sags in the crook of my arm and I splash backwards, the boy has a short sword in his right hand and he slashes at my face and body, I counter as best I can with my machete and actually manage to draw blood on his forearm. But it's not enough…the boy is too big and too strong. He uses his left hand to draw my focus and then kicks me square in the chest, I fall backwards and I think that this is probably it for me, I only hope my parents don't see the fear in my eyes.
A cannon sounds but, strangely, it's not for me; somewhere in the periphery of my vision I am aware of the girl from District Two being enthusiastically disembowelled by the girl from District Three. I don't know if the strong tributes were still banded together but the girl's death is enough to draw the attention of the District Four boy, just for a moment, and I take my slim advantage. I kick him in the ankle and he lands in the water as I groan to my feet; my machete tears his upper body and opens wound after wound in his neck and chest. When I hear the cannon I look up, the blood-spattered girl from Three stabs a mace into the boy from District Eight and pushes him onto the floor; but she doesn't attack any further, instead she grabs three of the bags and turns to run north, perhaps making her way back to somewhere she feels safe…that seems like a good idea to me.
I still have the bag I originally grabbed from the table and I reach down to scoop up another, trapped beneath the corpse of the boy from District Four. He's large and difficult to move but the bag isn't hooked around him so I pull it out with relative ease. I notice the water around my ankles is turning red as the knife wound in my calf bleeds freely, I hope there are more bandages in these supply bags as it seems I will need them.
The District Eight boy is on his feet, shaking and bleeding but searching industriously through a bag; for one lonely, ridiculous minute, I consider asking if he wants an ally. We could hunt down the District Three girl together and share the supplies in these bags…the feeling doesn't last and, anyway, it wouldn't be like it was with Cass, this tribute means nothing to me, I certainly don't trust him.
The supplies feel reassuringly heavy and I doubt I'll need to travel far to be able to inspect them in relative safety; two deaths should hold the audience for the rest of the day and give me a chance to stitch up my new wound as well as re-dress my old one. I limp through the green water until I reach the spongey marsh of the treeline, the soft ground feels good under my feet and I let out a huge sigh of relief…I'd woken today expecting much worse.
I'm not sure what makes me look up into the trees but, when I tip my head backwards, I spy Bates hanging onto some vines above me; I don't recall seeing him at the actual feast, he must've decided he had better odds waiting for a lone tribute to travel away with supplies.
Bates lands heavily on my back; I feel a rush of air and twist my head as a hatchet sticks in the marsh directly next to my ear. All I can do is wriggle, kick my legs backwards and try to avoid the heavy blade that he wants to stick into my skull. Seconds feel like hours but my mad panic dislodges him enough to free my arm and I flail wildly for my machete, kicking and squirming until a sudden sickness hits the pit of my stomach…the hatchet has landed in the marsh and taken off the little finger of my left hand.
"Aaah!" I scream more from shock than pain, though I imagine there will be plenty of that later once the adrenaline has ebbed. I find energy from goodness knows where and pull my knees up under my stomach, giving me enough force to push up wards and cause Bates to roll off my back. He pulls himself to his feet, as do I, and we have a brief moment to size each other up; Bates is pale and shaking, not just from exertion but in pain. Its then I realise that his right arm is tucked inside his shirt, as if he wants to keep it still against his chest; is that why he was clinging onto vines in a tree rather than fighting at the feast? Is the shoulder dislocated or has he broken his arm? Bates swings at me with the hatchet, panting and sweating, but I step back and counter with my machete. The exchange is brief and he turns to run, like last time, perhaps hoping that I won't pursue him with my injured calf or that I won't risk losing more digits until I've healed my wounds. But my adrenaline is high and I don't feel anything except the pain of losing Cass and the guilt of letting her die; I won't let Bates run from this. The boy scampers backwards a while, lashing out every now and then with his weapon, but his eyes are losing focus; whatever he has done to his arm its taking all his strength to stay upright and I think he only really had the element of surprise as his final strategy. I chase him down and swipe at the back of his neck, he falls forwards and I try to stab the machete into his back…but its too blunt now. Instead I take the hatchet from his unresisting hand and heave it into the back of his head.
I don't know what I expect to feel, vindication maybe, but I don't. The panic and anger that has fuelled me this far abandons me when I see my finger on the floor behind me, I pick it up and consider keeping it- if I win could they reattach it? I don't know if it's fuzzy thinking or insanity but I put it in my pocket anyway, it feels wrong just leaving it on the floor.
My finger stub bleeds freely and my forearm is coloured a deep red, right now I desperately hope there is something in these bags for my hand and calf. I retreat far enough away to allow the Captiol to collect Bates' body and then paw through the bags; I don't know what I'm looking for exactly, maybe a decent stitching kit, but I spot a small, ziplock bag with a medical symbol printed on the sides. I use my teeth to open it and tip the contents out on the ground and….yes! I see exactly what I need and it fills me with a mixture of relief and fear.
Once, back in Eleven, I saw a boy fall out of a tree; he was picking fruit in the highest branches and, amazingly, survived his fall. But, when the peacekeeper walked over, he saw a large, sharp stick hanging out of the boy's thigh, he pulled it out and then paled as the bleeding started…bleeding that wouldn't stop. It's fortunate that we were in the North Orchard because there's a medic post there and they stock real equipment from the Capitol. A medic ran over with what looked like a short, bronze pen but, when he uncapped it, the end was flat metal; the medic clicked the top and started to apply it to the wound in short bursts. The boy screamed and I could smell the burning, but the wound sealed and he was transported back to his family in the town.
I steel myself, because I know this is going to hurt, and click the end. It heats within seconds and I take a deep breath through my nostrils, then I touch it to the open wound where my finger used to be. I don't scream…I pant, stamp and urinate in my trousers…but I don't scream. I repeat the process until I am satisfied that there is no more bleeding and then sit back on the marsh, burying my face into my shirt so I can have some privacy to cry a few silent tears.
After a few moments I think to look at the rest of the contents from the medical bag and I spy a tiny pot of salve that I hope is for burns. I unscrew it and gingerly dip in the stub of my finger, immediately it feels soothed and I find the strength to face the stab wound on my leg. I use water to free it from where it has already started to stick to my trousers but, even with the salve open next to me, I have to work myself up to using the cauterisation tool again. This injury is deeper and takes longer to heal but I feel a little better for the burn medicine. I also find some strong pain pills and I take a goodly handful, washing them down with a full litre of water.
Once the medication kicks in I feel up to looking through the rest of my supplies and I'm pleased that the Game makers weren't lying about providing a feast. I have bags of dried fruit, dried strips of beef, a packet of crackers, a blanket, matches and more pain pills. Best of all I have some silver sachets of dehydrated meals; beef with noodles, chicken with apricots, lamb with mint sauce, I just need to add water and wait.
I want to tear into the food now but, as I look around me at the blood spatters on the ground, I realise that I can be tracked easily by any tribute or predator that wants to find me. I'm so tired but it's still early and I don't want to succumb to sleep here, I have to force myself to move on.
All the pain my brain shielded me from during the fight floods through me now and walking, even a short distance, has me panting with effort. I sit down heavily and look around me until I see a stick that looks useful to lean on. I repack the new supplies into my own pack and then drag the stick over to me, testing it with my weight as I stand. My movements are slow, hindered by pain and fatigue and, to be honest, I don't really know how far I travel. Eventually I fall forwards and crawl to a likely looking patch of vegetation; I add water to a dehydrated pack of lamb and count to sixty as I wait for it to be ready. Once I have swallowed the final bite I apply some more salve to my calf and finger then drag the blanket over me and plunge into sleep.