Chapter Eleven

Going Under

Author's Note: Thanks to my regular reviewers/subscribers, plus TeamGlimmer :^) When I read my e-mails this morning I wanted to cry - that's how happy you can make a writer with just one review.

Legal: Still don't own shares in Hunger Games. One day Suzanne Collins will come around, though…

Ash

I count the number of cannons fired for dead tributes under my breath. One…Two…Three…Four…Five…Six…Seven…Eight…

Silence.

Eight people just died. That's something I can only think of in the abstract. Maybe my brain's stopping me from getting emotional because, if I do, the grief for the other tributes will be detrimental to my survival.

I have been sitting at the base of this small tree for too long. I hate it when my mind stalls, especially at a time like this. I have to forage for food, but my immediate surroundings don't look particularly promising; no bushes bearing fruit, no edible-looking vegetation. A tiny sparrow hops between the overhead branches, and despite its cuteness, I start salivating over it. Not like I can get it though - not without a bow and arrow.

I am so screwed. And yet I sit here doing absolutely zilch about it. I mean, what am I expecting? For food to just oh-so-conveniently fall out of the -

Well I'll be damned. My eyes fixate on the unmistakable silver parachute glinting in the afternoon sun, making its carefree way down to a spot on the ground only a few feet away. This can mean only one thing: I have sponsors!

"Thank you, Finnick," I say aloud, reaching over and picking up the sphere attached to the parachute. At first I don't see how you're supposed to open it, but then my hands twist the lid loose, and I let it fall to the ground.

Whatever it is comes wrapped in tissue paper. Like a kid on my birthday, I unwrap it to reveal…bread! Oh sweet, wonderful life-sustaining bread!

Before I begin composing rapturous bread-praising sonnets, however, I see that my gift comes with a small white card.

TO KEEP YOU GOING.

Aw, that's nice, if obvious. Still, I'm so lucky to have Finnick to negotiate…

My heart stops when I catch the smaller letters beneath the message. It's not from Finnick.

It's from Antigonus. The mentor for District Five.

As if on cue, someone slams into me, sending us both to the ground. I clutch onto the bread, holding it to my chest like a baby.

"You little thief! Give it here!"

Fox Girl. I don't know anything about her, let alone how to fight her off. I decide to play the innocence card.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, okay, okay OW - " she's scratching my arms. Not cool.

" - okay, please, I'm sorry! I didn't know it was for you!"

"A likely story."

"It's true! Please, just look at me: I'm unarmed. I couldn't kill you if I tried. So how about you get off me and we can settle this like civilised people?"

She stops scratching long enough to pull a wry expression.

"Hello, this is the Hunger Games. Nothing is civilised here."

"An excellent point. But…look, if you do kill me right now, you realise my blood is going to get all over your precious loaf? Then it'll just go to waste."

She pauses to consider this new piece of information. Then, to my immense relief, she stands up and crosses her arms. I get up too, still holding the bread.

"Well come on then, give it to me."

"Can't we share?"

She looks appalled.

"No, we cannot share! It's my bread!"

My nails start digging into the crust, visibly squashing it.

"Or I could just rip the loaf to shreds and feed it to all the little birds. Your choice: half or nothing."

Her green eyes narrow. Seriously: a fox, she is.

"Fine."

"See? Who says we can't be diplomatic here?"

I slowly tear the loaf in two, although one half ends up slightly larger than the other. I make a point of handing it to Fox Girl, so she has less of a reason to attack me again.

For a couple of minutes we both just stand opposite one another in silence, chewing and savouring the thick, filling, grainy bread. My fatigue lightens considerably.

"So what now?" she says.

"I don't know," I reply truthfully. "…Alliance?"

She shakes her head with a hint of a proud smile.

"Sorry, that's not how I'm planning on surviving these Games."

Well that's just really unhelpful.

"I see. In that case, why don't we just agree not to kill each other for as long a time as possible?"

She says nothing. I need to persuade her. Time to play the intimidation card.

"You know, I was lying when I said I couldn't kill you. I don't need weapons to do that. One of the many, many benefits of gymnastics, at least for me, has been wicked upper-body strength." I deliberately stretch my arms and hands out in front of her face. It works, because I see fear light up in her eyes.

"Alright, alright," she says, still frigid. "We'll go our separate ways. But I swear, Four, if I catch you stealing from me again, there will be no diplomacy from me."

"Understood," I respond calmly. "And it's Ash. Not Four."

"Whatever."

She hesitantly turns around and starts walking away, but I have to say one more thing:

"Hey. I never got your name."

Her thin face, bored now, tilts back my way.

"Vixen, if you're that interested."

I wait until she's out of sight to, in spite of everything, have a long chuckle to myself. A girl, with a fox face and red hair, called Vixen. That's the best thing I've heard all day.

I walk with a little more energy thanks to the bread. And just when I think things might be looking up for me, something changes significantly in the air. It's getting heavier, and...smokier.

My heart pounds underneath my sternum as I take in the sight of orange flames, licking the trees until they turn black. And…is that a -

SWOOSH. I duck just as a massive fireball comes hurtling towards me. What is this?

I stumble onto my feet and take off in the opposite direction, ducking blindly every time I feel heat approaching.

My hands lash out at any branch or tree that stands in my way. What if it doesn't stop? What if this fire goes on forever?

I just keep running. All of a sudden I see a different red in front of me. It's Fox Girl - Vixen - and she's just casually walking with her back to me, totally oblivious.

"RUN! FIRE! FIRE!" I scream like a madwoman. I see her face, confused and angry at the sound of my voice. Then all I see is terror, and she races on with me.

Flint

I make a temporary shelter out of a tiny, damp cave a long way out from the Cornucopia. Finally I can examine the thing I picked up: in my hands it feels bumpy, and the leather is thick and tough.

A smile creeps onto my face as I unfold a selection of small, but sharp, pocket knives, gold and silver alternately.

I go so far as to do a little happy dance with my arms: now I'm sorted for self-defence and catching dinner.

I look at the sky from the mouth of the cave - if I'm going hunting I'd better do it now, before the sun sets, otherwise I won't be able to see a thing.

Having selected the sharpest knife in the wallet, I make sure the coast is clear and start looking out for something meaty.

After ten minutes of me walking in careful, quiet circles, I get bored. It's only when I stand still, however, that my eye catches a glimpse of movement amongst the trees. My knife is at the ready…

It lodges into the ground, having gone through the body of small red creature. It's still twitching…whoa, okay back away, Flint, back away now. Up close I realise it's a muttation: a squirrel muttation, to be precise. They call it a "sharpel", and with good reason; these foul little beasts have been genetically engineered to grow fricking massive claws, longer than a wild cat's. They're also notoriously aggressive, even more so than regular squirrels.

I wait, and eventually it gives up and dies. I breathe a sigh of relief and, with some squeamishness, I yank the knife out of the ground, taking the sharpel with it.

Good thing I found a cave - I need to make a fire and there is no way I'm going to start one up when it's getting dark. That's suicide. Although as I step outside to waft the smoke away into the air, I smell an even stronger smoke from further away. My jaw slowly drops as I watch thick grey stacks of it emerge from distant treetops. How is there such a big fire here? When did that start? And…why isn't it moving this way?

Not that I want it to, obviously, but there's something very strange about a blazing fire that only sticks to one hectare of woodland. Maybe the gamemakers are having a little fun, trying to drive some of the other tributes to the Cornucopia so they can be killed off.

As much as I hate to admit it, that makes sense. But I stay standing for a while longer, just to make doubly sure I'm safe from it.

Then, as if nothing's happened, I return to my dinner.

I have to saw off the claws, but once that's done and the meat's roasted for about twenty minutes, I find that skewered sharpel is actually quite the delicacy.

The sun is just disappearing beneath the horizon when I hear the ninth cannon go off.

Logan

I wake up to a darker, colder air than the one I dropped off in. My head is so…bleh. I must still be losing a lot of blood…how am I still alive, let alone awake?

My eyes droop to my left shoulder, and then instantly widen. I don't know how, but the blood stains are dry. Someone's wrapped my wound in leaves.

Feverishly, I look around, straining my eyes in the setting sunlight, but there's no one else around. Must have already been and gone. But who on earth would do that for me? I know sponsors send parachutes via our mentors, but this is something else entirely.

Still, whoever it was, I'm now indebted to them: my thoughts feel clearer. Maybe I will get through tonight after all. My shoulder's throbbing and stinging like crazy, though. I need something to soothe the wound if I'm ever going to sleep.

Then I glance up ahead on my left, and it only hits me now that the tree I'm in is right beside a creek. Brilliant! Guess I was too distracted by the shock of my injury to notice the first time.

My left hand's clasped around something: the tiny blue bottle. Ohhh…I remember now. It's iodine, to treat water and make it drinkable. The odds, dare I say it, do seem to be in my favour this afternoon.

I carefully untie the knots in my rope, and wrap it around my right hand so I can ease myself down the tree.

I'm still a bit unsteady on my feet, but I get to the water's bank just fine. I assess the condition of my shoulder: buried beneath the long, smooth leaves I can't actually make out how much it's healed, if at all. But I do know that my t-shirt sleeve is totally ripped, hanging down in shreds.

I kneel down on the grass and slowly unwrap the leaves, afraid of what I might see underneath. Ooh…the cut may not be deep, but it's long, thin and very, very red. I peel off my t-shirt and, shivering in the chill of the approaching evening, my right hand scoops up cold, rushing water. I have to lean forward to get any of it to bathe my wound. Ah, ah…ooh, that's nice. I feel the cut hiss with pain, but it's good. I'm preventing infection.

Even though I should really use the iodine on the water, it's all the way up the tree, and I don't even have a container to collect it in, so I just gulp a few handfuls down. That is so beautifully refreshing.

I go back to rhythmically sloshing water over my shoulder, wiping away the residual blood on my pale skin.

"Could do this all night," I mutter to myself.

"Don't count on it."

I spin around, startled, onto my side to stop myself from falling into the creek. I have to prop my body up with my right arm, because my left can't take any weight.

The Careers stare down at me with menacing sneers on their faces, and all I can wish for at that moment is to not have taken my shirt off. Clove raises an eyebrow appreciatively at the sight of my wound.

"I see you couldn't quite escape my knife, then. I'm just sorry it didn't get you in the back of the head."

I'm too struck down by fear for my life to respond. Cato sniggers, and then, in a business-like manner, cocks his head towards Marvel on his right.

"Kill him."

"My pleasure."

My arm flies to my face, but that just makes my left shoulder thud to the ground OH THAT HURTS -

Marvel pounces onto me, and whether he means for this to happen or not, we both fall off the bank into the creek.

So cold. So very. Very. Ice. Cold.

My good arm shoots up out of the water as I feel myself getting carried away by the current. I grab what I think is Marvel's shoulder, and wrench him back beneath the surface. Suddenly his strong hands are around my neck, and he shakes me violently back and forth. Water goes up my nose, down my throat, bubbles from my muted cries clouding my vision. Frantically I throw myself forward against the force of the water, until I've slammed Marvel's back, and hopefully his head, into the wall of the bank.

His grip loosens enough for me to kick upwards. My head cuts through the air, and I'm spluttering and coughing manically. I can see my breath in the darkening air, as well as the other four Careers…four? Who's the other -

I'm pulled back down into the freezing water. My teeth clench. Marvel pushes me down as far as I will go to the floor of the creek. My shoulder kills, and my throat struggles against the merciless pressure of Marvel's fingers as they dig deeper and deeper into my neck and water is filling my lungs and I don't know how much longer I can -

Something stops. I think it's my heart.

Dan

I spring up from my place on the sleeping bag. A cannon. The bloodbath is long finished, so who is it? Is it the girl from my tribute? Ash? Thorn? Katniss, or Peeta?

I try and stay emotionally detached for now - the night sky is bleeding into what was daylight, which means that any minute now the gamemakers will list the dead tributes thus far.

Man, it's cold. Good thing these jackets absorb heat as well as deflect it. I slide my legs into my sleeping bag and zip it up as far as I can whilst remaining in a sitting position against this log. I tuck the ends of my sleeves over my hands, and then bury them, crossed, in my armpits.

I could really use a pillow.

To distract myself from the discomfort, I carry out the grim task of trying to deduce who's still alive apart from me. There were eight cannons, now nine… well, I'm gonna assume for argument's sake that all the Careers are up and running without so much as a scratch on them. That's Marvel, Glimmer, Cato and Clove. Then me. I know Katniss got away. That's six.

Ash probably made it out of there; she's tough. Oh, and Flint. I think I remember Foxy's red hair disappearing into the bushes. Nine people. Thresh, of course. Peeta? Maybe, although I don't recall seeing him leave the clearing. I'll keep the number at ten, for now.

Who else am I forgetting…? Oh yeah, Logan. And Thorn! How did I forget about her? Hmm…I honestly can't tell if she might have made it out of there alive or not. She's like a walking time bomb, all nervous and stuff, before blowing a fuse and breaking out some insane kung fu moves, like in training.

That makes eleven or twelve of us still alive. But if there have only been nine cannons, then I've failed to name three or four other tributes. I guess I'll leave that to the Capitol.

Nyaaahhh…Hunger Games? More like Hunger Pangs. I mean, I'm seriously grateful to have a sleeping bag and first aid kit on me, but if I had like a knife or something I might have been able to eat. There's a bush near me with lots of dark berries, but I didn't do very well at the edible plants station during training, so I don't even trust myself to go near them.

The deafening notes of Panem's national anthem suddenly interrupt the quiet night air. Up against the dark sky is a laser projection of the eagle insignia, symbolising pride and strength for our nation, blahblahblahblahblah…

Then through the speakers, which must be all over the arena for every tribute to hear, there resounds a booming automated voice:

"The Fallen."

Here we go.

Thorn

I awake bleary-eyed from my dehydrated sleep to the sounds of the anthem. Why does it have to be so loud… then I sit up straight, remembering that at least eight tributes have died, and now we can find out who they are.

The same photos used for the showcase scores are displayed tonight. In white laser form, the tributes look like genuine ghosts:

Girl from Three. Her name was Perdita. Fourteen.

Dyon from Four.

Boy from Five, called Tristram. Fifteen.

Mailo from Six.

Logan…no.

My hand flies to my mouth as a strangled sob makes itself heard. I can't believe it…not Logan. Not Logan. He seemed like such a nice guy. I can't kid myself that he was going to win, but there is no way he deserved to die. And on the first day, as well.

Only eight cannons went off for the bloodbath, I remember that…so when did he die? I must have been asleep when it happened. Oh, that's terrible.

The list goes on a while longer.

Hady Jackal, Logan's partner tribute. Just thirteen. Poor girl…

Kiko. Oh dear…and yet I'm not in the least bit surprised. Just very disheartened. It's when children as vulnerable as him are reaped that these Games are really at their most sickening.

I start trembling, but I can't tell whether from the cold or from anger.

With that, the hologram ends. That's it. One day down. However many are left really just depends on how bloodthirsty the Careers are feeling.

I hug my knees to my chest and wish, to no avail, that it wasn't so cold. I want to go back and see if I can find anything left in the Cornucopia, but the Careers will just be waiting there.

Basically, it's a choice between bleeding to death or freezing to death. Fabulous.

Actually, no. You know what? I'm going to create a third option: get up and find real shelter. Never mind that I can barely see my own hand in front of my face - I'm determined not to turn into a human ice-cube overnight.