I don't really have any excuse for the long wait you've all had to endure. All I can really say is that, if you're still reading and reviewing, I can't even express my gratitude.
~~0~~
It takes all my willpower to leave the safety of the bush burrow the following morning – at least, what feels like morning, seeing as the sky is still as uncompromisingly blue as ever. The confines of my shelter have stiffened my joints and covered my clothes with dust, but what greets me outside makes me doubly grateful I was hidden last night.
Evidence of the carnage is splashed over the walls and floor of the canyon I almost strayed down yesterday afternoon. Even from my vantage point atop the plateau, I can see the telltale dark stains marring the rocks. Pawprints of similar hues reveal the attackers' movements, illustrating the tribute's desperate flight in more detail than I can bear, then retreat into a deep fissure in a bloody trail.
Who suffered this terrible death? It was definitely a girl from the sound of the voice, but I'm not entirely sure who all is left since the bloodbath. The Careers, definitely, and me – of whom none could possibly be the victim – and Dimity from Eight. Orford's district partner. I don't believe the girl from Twelve was in the death toll, either.
Out of those, it was probably her or Dimity. The Ten is older, from what I remember, while the screams that penetrated my sleep were young, childlike, terrified – though I assume anyone would sound that frightened in such a situation –
Giving into the impulse I've been resisting since boarding the hovercraft, I keel to the side and vomit.
I don't want to be here. I don't want to see any more of this. The fear, the guilt, the echoes of the dying victims are inescapable. At least back home I had school and work and Talee to form some sort of barrier, however weak, from the horror of the Games. Here, nothing holds back the flood.
Focus on something, I urge myself, uneasily realizing that I've curled my knees up to my chest in a sort of defensive position. Find food. Find water. Anything to keep from dwelling on all of this.
Yes. Just like working in the factories. Occupy your mind with something and drive out everything else. Fingering the white fabric around my wrist, I rise back to my feet.
Before I can forget, I kick some sand over the pile of vomit and attempt to smooth it out. I don't want anything to betray my presence if someone comes along. Just to be safe, I cast a glance back out at the savannah, but no dots are traversing it today. Even the distant Cornucopia seems still. I suppose even Careers need to sleep.
A brief breakfast of juicy leaves rekindles awareness of my hunger and thirst. My lips are dried and cracked from yesterday's long run, and the respite given by the plants is brief. If I want to have any chance of surviving, I'll have to put all my energy into finding water by the end of today. I'm certainly in need of better food, too, but the instructors in the training center made it clear that one can dehydrate far more quickly than starve.
In the slight chance that my continued survival has impressed any sponsors, I tilt my face towards the sky. They must have cameras there to film overhead shots of tributes on the plateau. Beetee is surely watching. If not, hopefully I look either pitiable or determined enough to sway Maybell.
"Water?" I ask. My voice is quiet from lack of use, so I repeat my request again more loudly. "Please?"
I count. Ten, twenty, sixty. Twice. Nothing happens. I can't say I was expecting much.
I switch my focus back to what I've learned in training. I've retained most of it quite well. The four signs of dehydration – well, I definitely have the dry lips and tongue, but I can't check my urine now and the skin of my hands isn't too taut. The instructor stressed the obvious precaution staying out of the sun and working only when it's cool, but that's hard to do in a perpetually sunny arena. What else was there? Water flows downhill – not much help for me, seeing as I'm at probably the highest point in the arena…
It is, however, found alongside abundant animal life. And whatever killed that girl needs to drink something.
Pulse rising, I return to the cliffside and glance over the edge. What I see nearly drives me back. Something – no, more than one something – has emerged from the cave. Their massive, catlike forms, tawny pelts and thick ruffs of hair ignite a memory of some past Game. I've seen a creature like this once before. I can't remember what the announcer said it was called, but I do recall the chatter among my schoolmates over how the Gamemakers could possibly have bred such a strange muttation. I was young enough for it to inspire quite a few nightmares.
Whatever the beasts are, they take their time in stretching, yawning, and – to my horror – licking traces of redness off their paws. The sun glints off massive saber teeth. I can only pray that the girl's death came before they tore her limb from limb.
They pad towards the base of the cliff, and for one insane second my body commands me to run as all I can think is they're going to climb up. Just as quickly, the impulse subsides and rationality returns; the face of the plateau is impossibly steep and the gentler slope I took is nowhere near. I lay on my stomach to peer over at what they are doing and my spirits rise when I see what has caught their attention.
The creatures have gathered around a small pool.
As quickly as the excitement comes, so too does panic. How on earth am I supposed to retrieve it from here? How very like the Gamemakers, to put such a commodity tantalizingly out of reach. No doubt the layout was meant to lure a stronger, braver tribute into a battle against the muttations. Perhaps they're engineered to retreat once one or two of their number have been killed – I doubt any of us, save possibly the Career pack all together, could defeat them all, but they could at least put up a more entertaining fight than the last victim did. What a treat for the Capitol, watching us struggle and kill and die for a drop of water. Survival of the fittest. No different than the beasts themselves.
I grit my teeth, stewing in frustration and the heat of the day. The cool, clear water seems to mock me from so far below. Running my tongue over my lips yet again, I note with a stab of anxiety that they both feel like rocks. You still have time, I think, frenetically shuffling through every water-gathering technique I've learned in training. Dehydration can't kill until three days. And there are always those leaves. There's still time…
If only I had something long enough to reach down there. It couldn't be that hard. Nor that expensive…
It comes to me in a burst of ingenuity.
"Beetee," I say clearly, looking back up at the sky, "I'd like some string. And a cup. Thank you."
I begin counting, but this time it's not even a minute before the parachute appears. The silver shape swells from a pinprick to a filmy bulge of fabric, catching the sun's rays and scattering them back through the sky. It lands several meters from me. I run over, lift up the cloth, and examine the precious donation beneath. A spool of sturdy, white string rests upon the ground. Apparently a cup is too expensive, but in its place lies a sizeable square of tin foil.
Certainly it doesn't look like much. It's likely all my sponsors could afford. But I can practically see Beetee hunched over the screen, perhaps beneath the sceptical glances of his fellow mentors, muttering words of encouragement. "Come on, Wiress, figure it out … figure it out and show them all what you can do."
I don't hesitate to obey. The foil can be molded into a decent bowl-shape, and a few of the knots taught in training prove handy in looping the string around it. Some pebbles make their way into the container to weigh it down. Although I trust Beetee enough to assume he wouldn't have given me an insufficient length of string, I take the precaution of tearing strips of fabric off my pant bottoms and tying them to the opposite end. I can never be too careful, and with my shelter and the heat of the arena, it's far less important to be fully covered than fully hydrated.
Slowly, slowly, the little contraption inches its way towards the prize below. It must take half an hour for it to even touch the pool, but I absolutely cannot risk lowering it too quickly. If it falls, I have no chance of returning it. At long last it returns, flowing over the brim with precious water. Yet another small success.
I remove the string and set it aside while mulling over how best to purify the liquid. A cleansing tablet would be the easiest solution, but I can't rely on Beetee for everything, especially after he just sent me all this. Instead, I scour my plateau for materials for a fire – parched grass from the open space below, stringy bark from all three of the bush-burrows, branches snapped off those I'm not sheltering under – and pile it on the ledge halfway up the trail. It's not much, but it should be enough to boil the water, and the small quantity in addition to its dryness means it'll burn quickly without much smoke. Taking extra caution yet again, I start the fire in one of the small, uninhabited tunnels. Thin wisps of smoke curl out the hole not covered by my bowl, but they're inconspicuous enough against the bright blue sky that with any luck I won't be noticed. Not to mention the fact that my current location is relatively low and hidden by the other side of the canyon.
A flurry of movement startles me as I sip the piping hot water. Two beady eyes blink out of a nearby burrow. After a tense moment I think whatever it was is gone, but then one of the rat-like animals I glimpsed yesterday pops its head out. I catch a glimpse of a lithe, striped body and long tail before it darts into another small opening.
The fire must have scared it, I think. The creatures don't look particularly dangerous. However, I haven't eaten anything but leaves since the trip to the arena, and the sight of possible game only intensifies my hunger.
Ensuring my water is far enough away that I won't accidentally spill it, I peer into the hole from which the thing came. Fur rustles; more eyes glisten. Its fellows are either unaffected by the fire or too frightened to risk emerging. I'm going to figure out which.
Carefully, I pick up a smoking stick and poke it into their tunnel.
They shoot backwards like bullets.
Excitement mounting with this new discovery, I search my surroundings for something to catch one with. The ever-present red rocks are scattered about, but something squirms uncomfortably inside me at the idea of bludgeoning anything. With all I learned about snares in the training center, I might as well set up a trap. My string will have to do.
The scraggly bushes clinging to the cliffside aren't as sturdy as the fake trees available in training, but I'm still able to rig a respectable twitch-up snare dangling in front of the tunnel exit. Holding my breath, I snatch another burning stick and wave it in front of the hole I'm most certain the creatures have retreated towards.
Snap! The bent-over bush whips back into position. Writhing, clawing and rasping, the noose strung around its neck, is one of the creatures.
Panic seizes me. It didn't work; you did it wrong; you'll have to kill it yourself or it'll get away –
With an almost animalistic lunge, I fling myself on top of the animal, dragging the entire trap to the ground. The thing thrashes about with a strength I hadn't thought it capable of. Wriggling violently, it frees its head from my grasp and snaps out with surprisingly sharp-looking teeth. Concerned with little else than keeping those fangs away from my hands, I slam my body downwards again. This stops the creature from escaping, but has little other effect.
Desperately, I scrabble around with my free arm and seize whatever weapon I can find. The jagged rock smashes onto the creature's temple, once, twice, three times. Something snaps with a spray of warm wetness and I feel a shudder run through its tiny form.
Fighting back the urge to vomit yet again, I pick myself up off the ground. The rat-thing is definitely dead. Blood from its head wound drenches the front of my shirt. My hand is still clenched, trembling, around the killing weapon. It's strange; not a minute ago the thing was scuttling around alive, and now it's dead, just dead, because of something I did-
Stop that. Talee's voice in my mind again, her words swift and sudden as a slap to the face. You're alive. You're not injured. You have food. That's all that matters.
With a twinge of shame, I recall her tear-struck face, Ciara's dying agony, the tribute screaming in the gorge. The ten solemn faces in the sky. Far worse things have happened here than what I've just done.
So I busy myself with skinning, gutting, and eating the first real food I've had in a day, all the while wishing I had Talee, or Arkel, or even Beetee, to take my mind off this panic even for a moment.
~~0~~
Someone's coming.
I first notice it when I return to the top of the mesa around what feels like noon. At first, I dismiss the dot on the edge of the forest as too far away to present danger. However, a few minutes of watching confirms it's steadily moving closer. It's definitely only one person, so unless they've split up unusually early and peacefully, the Careers are ruled out. But that doesn't mean it's not a threat. While I'd certainly like to believe none of the non-Careers would be willing to kill on only the second day, years of watching the Games have proven otherwise.
A sickening chill, unwelcome despite the blazing heat, sweeps across my skin. How could I have known the other tributes would come this way so early? I'd counted on them to choose the shelter of the forest rather than brave the barren expanse of plain. Although – another chill unnerves me at the realization – although I managed to do so, and so did whoever fell victim to those horrid beasts. So why did I think encountering another tribute was so out of the question…?
Whatever you thought doesn't matter now. Focus. Retreating from the edge of the cliff just in case I'm visible against the sky, I weigh my options.
Could I run? The idea seems foolish. In the time it would take me to get back down to the ground, the advancing stranger could already be here – and then what would I do? I can't fight, and fleeing would be equally ineffective, especially if they have a long-range weapon. It seems I'll have to take my chances with hiding.
Fighting hard to remain calm, I scrounge up everything I've learned in the training center, only vaguely aware that I've begun pacing in a circle. Thank goodness I'd hidden all evidence of my fire down on the ledge; it would have been a dead giveaway that someone's here. I scan the ground to see if I've left any obvious footprints, but the scant layer of dust atop the rock betrays little evidence. Then there's my water-fetching contraption – hurriedly I scoop it up, dump it down the bush-burrow, and hoist up a leg to follow it.
Just before I can drop into the hole, something about the shrubbery catches my eye. While parts of the other two bushes have been stripped of their foliage, I've refrained from removing any cover from the one hiding my shelter. I'd figured that this would disguise my hiding place more, but my fear-sharpened senses realize it's only made it stand out. If the newcomer has a keen eye, they'll notice the discrepancy – and it's only reasonable to deduce that a human was responsible.
With fumbling fingers, I rip a few leaves off random areas of the central bush. Hopefully this'll make it less conspicuous. Hopefully it looks arbitrary enough to have lost its leaves naturally. Hopefully I'm right about this in the first place.
I don't spare another second in scurrying into my bush-burrow.
Here, in the pressing silence, a shaft of sunlight my only illumination, the severity of the situation stares me in the eye. I'm no longer a bystander, watching and dreading this scene from afar. I'm an actor in the drama itself. This, more than anything, is real. If whoever is approaching finds me in here, I'll have nowhere to run, nothing to protect myself with, perhaps no time to think. My only hope is that they will be merciful.
If they just give me a chance to talk, I decide, I'll offer an alliance. It may not have been my ideal solution in training, but neither was this my ideal situation. As repellent as the trauma of befriending another tribute only to be turned upon is, it's preferable to the immediate pain of death.
I'll show them how to catch food. Share my water with them. Tell them not to go into the canyon. I have enough survival knowledge to bargain with. They'll listen.
Although, if they know how to survive on their own, they'd just kill me then and there…
There's no guarantee they'll be on the offensive yet. It's only the second day. They're not a Career.
That's no reason to assume they won't kill.
They're not trained.
That doesn't mean they're harmless. And harmless doesn't always equal innocent. I've seen too much of human nature to believe that.
A footstep sounds from above.
Near paralyzed by a wave of fear, I curl up against the burrow wall. My breathing quiets to a hush. How could I have let it get so loud and frenzied?
The footsteps increase in volume and proximity, although they lack the speed I'd expect from a more confident tribute. The intruder approaches, then halts. A gentle sound of snapping comes from directly above me.
Are they breaking the branches? Or just the leaves? Do they suspect someone's hiding in the bushes?
The following minutes reveal nothing but silence. Then the tribute wanders in view of the opening, and I'm hit by a relief more powerful than any I've felt thus far.
"Arkel!"
My district partner starts, glancing about wildly in every direction but down.
"Wiress?" he asks hesitantly. "Is that you?"
"Yes, it's me. Look down."
His eyes widen in surprise as he discerns the mouth of the burrow amidst the tangled branches. "Never would've seen you down there. W-what are you doing?"
"Hiding, of course," I answer, pulling myself up through the hole to meet him. He doesn't look too worse for wear, albeit sweaty and tired. A few of the juicy leaves are clutched in one of his hands. "I saw someone coming from a ways off. I had no idea it was you."
"Ah, you've got a point. Sorry about that." He rubs a hand behind the back of his neck, whether from embarrassment or the heat I don't know. "Didn't mean to startle you."
"That's fine – but how've you been doing?" I press on, eager to hear his version of the first day. "Er, maybe that's a stupid question. I guess I mean, where've you been sheltering? Have you come across anyone? How did you think to come over here?"
"I didn't follow you, if that's what you mean," he answers quickly. "I know you didn't want an alliance. I just-" His voice cracks abruptly, torn by a harsh cough.
"Oh, right, you must be thirsty!" Mentally berating myself for not remembering how dehydrated I was after the long trek, I retrieve my water-carrier from the burrow and set to work lowering it towards the pool. The beasts from this morning have vanished; probably shading themselves in the cave. Arkel looks on in a mix between bemusement and gratitude as I pull up a bowlful of the clear liquid.
I start to tell him that we'll have to boil it, but he interrupts me by pulling something out of a small drawstring pouch around his neck. It's an iodine tablet. "Got this from, er, the Cornucopia. For purifying the water."
"Perfect."
As we wait for the water to clean, I relate what I've done so far, excluding the deaths I've witnessed. Somehow, they seem less real in light of Arkel's sudden reappearance, as if the presence of another human being puts the atrocities back behind a screen. My district partner nods in understanding as I relay my knowledge of the leaves – apparently there are similar bushes in the forest, although he hadn't seen any with burrows underneath – and the small creatures inhabiting the tunnels, which he glimpsed on his way up.
His thirst finally assuaged, Arkel thanks me and continues his story.
"I ran right at the gong and hid in the forest. It's not very big – kind of sparse, too, and I kept running into people. Most of them just went on their way when they realized I wasn't going to hurt them, but the guy from 9 only let me go because it was the first day. I slept in the bushes overnight, but when I woke up I thought I'd better get out of there as soon as I could. I saw this place in the distance and, well, I figured someplace hard to get to would probably be the safest. Thank good old District 3 intuition, I guess."
He smiles tentatively at the thought, as if pride in his own brains is something he's new to admitting. His glimmer of happiness is contagious; I find my own face melting into a grin as well. The action is unfamiliar and stings my parched lips.
"Well, take some credit," I say. "You thought of it yourself."
"Er, thanks."
We simply sit for five minutes, having exhausted the few conversation topics available in the Hunger Games. I take another sip of the water, then give the rest to him to drain. Upon finishing, he stands, glances about, makes as if to move away, and then looks back. His expression is torn, but between what I can't tell.
"Look – I know you said you didn't want an alliance, but…" He pauses, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Seeing as we're both here, and we're probably going to stay here for a while, maybe we could agree on some sort of … mutual, er, association-"
I stare at him, conflicted. Everything I've felt since the starting gong, fear and loneliness and wild instinct, has overshadowed my insistence on isolation. The conviction that was so strong in training now feels worn; beaten; irrelevant. Wasn't I willing to ally with an unknown tribute to save my life just an hour ago? More than that, now that I've spent time with perhaps the only person for miles with no desire to kill me, can I really let him slip away?
"Forget what I said," I decide. "We can have an alliance."
His face lights up. "Really? But – I don't want to make you-"
Don't make me regret this, please. I shake my head firmly, more to assuage my own doubts than his. "We're allies now. Just promise me one thing. When – if – we get into the final five, we'll split up. I couldn't – I don't want to put myself in a position to hurt you."
He nods. "I know. I promise."
"Thank you."
I hope he understands how much I mean that. Memories of our conversation the night before the Games flit through my mind. Yes, I believe he does.
Another awkward pause, then he starts, evidently remembering something. "Oh! Since we're allies now, I guess I can show you everything that's in here."
He fumbles with the string around his satchel and spills the contents out. Several more iodine tablets, a box of twenty or so matches, and – an unpleasant sensation goes through me – a small, silver-bladed knife clatter onto the ground.
"Not that much, but I think it's pretty good, don't you?"
"Mm-hmm." Something about his story doesn't add up. "And you got all these from the Cornucopia?"
"At the bloodbath, yeah."
"Even though you said you ran straight at the gong?"
"Eh?" I fix my eyes upon his face, which is paler than usual and twisted with discomfort. "Well, technically, I did, but-"
He sighs. "I guess it's no use keeping secrets. Don't look at me like that; it's not what you think. Well, not all of it. But – see, I was running away down this little trail through the woods. The girl from 7 was behind me. She was faster than I was, I guess; she'd gotten these from the Cornucopia and was trying to pass by. Then – I didn't even see it happen, but I heard a thump, like something fell to the ground, and I – it was stupid, but I stopped, I looked back, and there was an arrow in her head. I ducked down, in case whoever shot it would fire again, and I crawled over to the girl and took her bag. And then I ran."
I blink. The story's unpleasant, of course, but nothing incriminating. "Why didn't you want to tell me this?"
Arkel flushes ashamedly. "I thought you'd count it against me, maybe; tell me I shouldn't steal from the dead, or that I should've helped her. But she was past gone, Wiress. She had no use for supplies. It's better that they help people who're still alive, isn't it?"
He's right. Completely right about the supplies, and partially right in his fear I might scorn him for this. Had I witnessed that scene in the Games during any year before this, I would have held Arkel in disdain for robbing the fallen. Denounced him as just another pawn, all too eager to benefit from the death of a fellow tribute.
That's absurd, I realize. Could I really ever have looked down upon someone for holding survival above sentimentality in a situation like this?
"Don't worry," I say. "You didn't do anything wrong. After all, it's not like you killed her to take the supplies, right? And now we can use them ourselves."
There's a pregnant pause. As seems to be his habit, Arkel drops his gaze to the ground.
Something Beetee said to me, what seems like weeks and weeks ago, ripples through my memory. What I don't understand is why you feel you have to act like this with me. I'm your mentor. You should know that you can trust me.
I choose my words slowly. "You know, you don't need to pretend anymore. You can be honest with me. I'm not going to judge you."
Not for the first time, my past self-righteousness sickens me. The fact that my ally expected nothing but condemnation from me stings like a wound. Is this how Beetee saw me, as well?
"What was her name?" he finally asks.
"Imana, I think."
"Well, thanks, Imana," he says, looking briefly at the sky, back towards his feet, then back at me. His expression lifts hopefully. "You're really not angry?"
"Not at all," I state. A light sensation, like I've released a breath I didn't know I was holding, accompanies the words. To further assuage his doubt, I refigure my features into a smile. "Now, how about we go catch some lunch? You must be hungry."
~~0~~
I spend the next several hours familiarizing Arkel with our surroundings. Just as in training, he's only too willing to follow instructions and make himself useful, but at least he doesn't seem to fear my disapproval anymore. In fact, his obedience seems an asset to both of us here. I've never been the one to take charge of a situation, to tell others what to do – but in Arkel, I have a ready supporter who offers little complaint.
He proves far more adept than I was at catching the tunnel-creatures. While he seemed only scrawny in comparison to the Careers and larger tributes, I notice a bit of wiry muscle to him as he wrestles the animals into submission before cutting their throats. He's fast, too, with excellent reflexes. No doubt from all the running from Peacekeepers he did, I muse darkly. It makes me wonder why he never showcased this skill in training. I figure that survival instinct must have brought out strengths he never knew he had.
Starting a fire with matches ends up just as difficult for me as it was in training. I flinch at each spark, causing Arkel to finally take over. Our lunch of skewered meat, while still stringy and somewhat burned, has the advantage of being prepared with an actual knife rather than a sharpened rock. Afterwards we return to the top of the mesa, and in lieu of anything else to do I begin to pace about the flat surface. The bushes are positioned rather close to the trail that leads up, and the spot directly above the pond is about halfway along. The rest of the plateau appears to be just a flat stretch of rock. Absentmindedly I walk towards the far end, trying not to let my mind dwell on anything in particular.
Without warning, my foot plunges through the ground, sending me reeling forwards. Somehow amidst my panic, I think to shift weight back, but it's a futile attempt. It's only when I feel firm hands around my arm that my head clears enough to realize how fast my heart is racing.
Arkel jerks me backwards onto solid ground. Together we watch, transfixed, as a deep crack arcs away from the hole made by my foot and spreads its jagged fingers across the far half of the plateau. I cringe in anticipation of the whole thing collapsing, but after a few minutes of tense silence, it appears that's as much as is going to happen.
"T-thanks," I pant once I am able to regain my breath. "Wasn't expecting that."
Arkel shakes his head dumbly. "Don't mention it."
Gingerly, I press my toes against the ground a bit in front of me. The rock remains firm for several feet until I reach the hole. There, the slightest tap sends forth another network of cracks. I jump back.
"No sense in trying to get over that way," I mutter.
My ally, meanwhile, is flat on his stomach near the edge of the cliff, peering over the side and directly to our left. He makes a noise of confirmation, pulls himself into a kneeling position, and calls me over.
"Take a look at this."
I obey. A powerful pang of relief goes through me as I notice what I nearly fell victim to. Whereas the part of the plateau we've stayed on is fully supported by the cliff, the section ahead of us is nothing but a thin layer of stone, bridging a gap to another solid area. The brittle surface is held up by various rock columns, but they are at least a meter apart, providing no easy route across.
"I guess I was wrong about this place being so safe," I say, more to myself than to Arkel, as I roll back up onto mercifully sturdy ground.
Arkel shrugs. "What's really safe here, anyways? We could be back in the forest, bumping into tributes every five minutes, always this close to getting k-"
Everything disappears.
Arkel's startled yell rips through the sudden darkness. I just manage to force back a similar sound, but my hands fly protectively in front of me nonetheless. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, flooding the silence with the illusion of noise.
"Get the knife out." I'm shocked to hear myself say those words, but honestly, what else is there to do? I can't see. I can't run if I can't see. Not that I can fight, either, but…
The whisper of metal against cloth reveals Arkel's followed my instructions. Feeling hesitantly about, I reach for his arm and move over to stand beside him. Yet again, we're powerless to do anything but stand there, frozen in wait.
Soon, however, it dawns on me that I'm not entirely blinded. The outline of the horizon has begun to creep through the gloom. I swivel my head in the other direction – yes, that's Arkel's silhouette. Pinpricks of stars fade slowly into being above, followed in several minutes by a ghostly disc of a moon low in the sky. Maybe this isn't some direct threat from the Gamemakers. Maybe it has no connection to the near-collapse of the plateau. It seems like they've just decreed night should fall at last.
I voice this theory to Arkel, who stammers in confusion.
"B-but – but – I thought it didn't get dark here."
"Me too," I confirm. "But I guess the Capitol wanted to shake things up a bit." It doesn't feel nearly late enough in the day for them to signal for us to sleep, so the only other explanation is that they've decided to release the Careers from the oppressive heat. The packs tend to hunt in the dark, after all. No doubt they've already been sent flashlights or night-vision goggles for just this purpose. "Think we should go back to the burrow?"
"I was just about to say that."
Struggling to make our way in the dark, the two of us stumble over to the familiar shapes of the bushes. Fortunately, the den is just big enough to conceal the two of us, so long as we keep our arms folded and knees tucked tightly against our bodies. The water-carrying apparatus sits atop our bag in the little available room.
"I'll take first watch," Arkel offers. His blurred figure rises into a half-standing position which must be just high enough for him to see out. I make out the glint of the knife in his hand, and a chill goes down my spine at the thought that we might soon have to use it.
The night claims its first victim about half an hour later. Arkel spots the hovercraft descending against the moon to the distant forest. It seems the careers, if they were responsible for the cannon, haven't come anywhere near this far. Still, complacency on our part would be dangerous. The hours drag, neither of us willing to risk speaking, each taking turns standing guard. My stomach grumbles come what must, in some slightly more civilized part of Panem, be suppertime, but we can't risk leaving. Even if we could find our way down the cliffside in the darkness, the light of the fire might attract someone. Arkel makes no indication of his hunger. With an uncomfortable twinge, I realize he's probably used to it.
I've lost track of how many times we've switched watch when the anthem makes its unwelcome return. I shuffle over to allow Arkel some room to look out the opening. Wordlessly, we watch as today's victims are projected over their shroud of black sky.
Dimity, the terrified young girl from 8, is first. I realize, when she is followed by the tall boy from 9, that she must have fallen prey to the muttations this morning. Thrust to the front of my mind is her dress during the chariot rides; pure white with bursts of red. I'd thought of her as a lamb to the slaughter. The memory of her blood smearing the ground confirms that I was right. Throat filling with bile, I double over and retch violently.
Lost in the fear and the hunger and the mounting list of names, so many more names than I can hope to remember, I start at the hesitant brush of Arkel's hand. No longer dry-heaving but still bent double, I don't protest. He begins to rub my back in gentle, comforting circles. A futile gesture in the face of what lies ahead, perhaps, but a meaningful one all the same. Shyly yet gratefully, I do the same to him. While there's certainly nothing more than camaraderie on my part, it ignites something warm and new within me nonetheless. I've had acquaintances my age before, but none close enough to call friends. Now, in the Hunger Games of all places, I feel I do.
My worry fades away with the second day of the Games.