Pretty much all of the chapters of the Games are the same as the book with a few changes so I am going to stop saying so.
Chapter Fourteen: Water and Fire
The Career pack sets off at a run just as dawn begins to break, and birdsong fills the air. I remain in my awkward position, muscles trembling with exertion for a while longer, then hoist myself back onto my branch. I need to get down, to get going, but for a moment I lie there, digesting what I've heard.
Not only is Peeta with the Careers, they are using him to find me. The simpleminded girl who has to be taken seriously because of her eleven. Because she can use a bow and arrow. Which Peeta knows better than anyone and he hasn't told them yet. Is he saving that information because he knows it's all that keeps him alive? Is he still trying to protect me? What is going on in his head? I mean he obviously saw me but didn't disclose my whereabouts to them.
Suddenly, the birds fall silent. Then one gives a high-pitched warning call. A single note. High above the dying campfire a hovercraft materializes. A set of huge metal teeth drops down. Slowly, gently, the dead tribute girl is lifted into the hovercraft. Then it vanishes. The birds resume their song.
"Move," I whisper to myself. I wriggle out of my sleeping bag, roll it up, and place it in the pack. I take a deep breath. While I've been concealed by darkness and the sleeping bag and the willow branches, it has probably been difficult for the cameras to get a good shot of me. I know they must be tracking me now though. The minute I hit the ground, I'm guaranteed a close-up.
The audience will have been beside themselves, knowing I was in the tree, that I overheard the Careers talking, that I discovered Peeta was with them. Until I work out exactly how I want to play that, I'd better at least act on top of things. Not perplexed. Certainly not confused or frightened. No, I need to look one step ahead of the game.
I'm about to take off when I think of my snares. I'm rewarded with one fine rabbit. In no time, I've cleaned and gutted the animal. I'm wishing for a fire - eating raw rabbit can give you rabbit fever, a lesson I learned the hard way -when I think of the dead tribute. I hurry back to her camp. Sure enough, the coals of her dying fire are still hot. I cut up the rabbit, fashion a spit out of branches,and set it over the coals.
I'm glad for the cameras now. I want sponsors to see I can hunt, that I'm a good bet because I won't be lured into traps as easily as the others will by hunger. While the rabbit cooks, I grind up part of a charred branch and set about camouflaging my orange pack. The black tones it down, but I feel a layer of mud would definitely help. Of course, to have mud, I'd need water . . .
I take off in the opposite direction the Careers went. I eat half of the rabbit as I go then save the leftovers for later wrapped in my plastic. I need to find water.
I search and keep moving looking for any sign of water and I can't find any. I'm determined to search until nightfall. Exhausted, I haul myself up into a tree and belt myself in, the anthem plays, and high in the sky I see the picture of the girl, who was apparently from District 8. The one Peeta went back to finish off.
My fear of the Career pack is minor compared to my burning thirst. Besides, they were heading away from me and by now they, too, will have to rest. With the scarcity of water, they may even have had to return to the lake for refills.
Morning brings distress. My mind seems foggy and forming a plan is hard. I lean back against the trunk of my tree, one finger gingerly stroking the sandpaper surface of my tongue, as I assess my options. How can I get water? Return to the lake. No good. I'd never make it. Hope for rain. There's not a cloud in the sky. Keep looking. Yes, this is my only chance. But then, another thought hits me, and the surge of anger that follows brings me to me senses.
Haymitch! He could send me water! Press a button and have it delivered to me in a silver parachute in minutes. I know I must have sponsors, at least one or two who could afford a pint of liquid for me. Yes, it's pricey, but these people, they're made of money. And they'll be betting on me as well. Perhaps Haymitch doesn't realize how deep my need is. I say in a voice as loud as I dare. "Water." I wait, hopefully, for a parachute to descend from the sky. But nothing is forthcoming.
There's someone out there who wants to buy me water only Haymitch is refusing to let it go through. As my mentor, he gets to control the flow of gifts from the sponsors. I know he hates me. He's made that clear enough. But enough to let me die? From this? He can't do that, can he? If a mentor mistreats his tributes, he'll be held accountable by the viewers, by the people back in District 12. Even Haymitch wouldn't risk that, would he? So . . . what? Is he trying to make me suffer for defying him? Is he directing all the sponsors toward Peeta? Is he just too drunk to even notice what's going on at the moment? Somehow I don't believe that and I don't believe he's trying to kill me off by neglect, either. What is Haymitch doing? Despite my anger, hatred, and suspicions, a small voice in the back of my head whispers an answer.
Maybe he's sending you a message, it says. A message. Saying what? Then I know. There's only one good reason Haymitch could be withholding water from me. Because he knows I've almost found it.
I grit my teeth and pull myself to my feet. My backpack seems to have tripled in weight. I find a broken branch that will do for a walking stick and I start off. By the afternoon, I know the end is coming. My legs are shaking and my heart too quick. I keep forgetting what I'm doing. I think of Prim back home watching my die and it pushes me forward a little more. I think of Finnick in the game room watching me die. I think he must be begging Haymitch to send me water. But he might not, he has his own tributes to watch out for. Well only one left now. But he made me promise. He did make me promise right? My mind is foggy.
I finally tumble to the ground unable to get up. I let my eyes close. I have misjudged Haymitch. He has no intention of helping me at is an okay place to die, I think. My fingertips make small swirling patterns in the cool, slippery earth. I love mud, I think. How many times I've tracked game with the help of its soft, readable surface. Good for bee stings, too. Mud. Mud. Mud! My eyes flyopen and I dig my fingers into the earth. It is mud! My nose lifts in the air. And those are lilies! Pond lilies! I crawl now, through the mud, dragging myself toward the scent. It's all I can do not to plunge my face into the water and gulp down as much as I can hold. But I have just enough sense left to abstain. With trembling hands, I get out my flask and fill it with water. I add what I remember to be the right number of drops of iodine for purifying it. Then half an hour of waiting is agony, but I do it. At least, I think it's a half an hour, but it's certainly as long as I can stand. Slowly, easy now, I tell myself. I take one swallow and make myself wait. Then another. Over the next couple of hours, I drink the entire half gallon. Then a second. I prepare another before I retire to a tree where I continue sipping, eating rabbit, and even indulge in one of my precious crackers. By the time the anthem plays, I feel remarkably better. There are no faces tonight, no tributes died today. Tomorrow I'll stay here, resting, camouflaging my backpack with mud, catching some of those little fish I saw as I sipped, digging up the roots of the pond lilies to make a nice meal. I snuggle down in my sleeping bag, hanging on to my water bottle for dear life, which, of course, it is.
A few hours later, the stampede of feet shakes me from slumber. I look around in bewilderment. It's not yet dawn, but my stinging eyes can see it. It would be hard to miss the wall of fire descending on me.