Chapter 14

Scenes like this aren't supposed to happen under perfect blue skies. All around me, children lie dead or dying, painting the ground crimson, the coppery wet scent of blood flooding the air. I avoid looking at the dead eyes forever staring at that perfect blue sky and weave my way around the corpses to the Cornucopia. By and large, the clean kills are the handiwork of the Careers, brutal and efficient. The less fortunate lie wounded, suffering from haphazard cuts and blows, drowning in their own blood. A literal bloodbath. They are the victims of the inexperienced, the ordinary tributes who still managed to turn lethal as soon as the gong sounded.

I make it through the initial fighting unchallenged. An eight in training scares away the weaker tributes without threatening the stronger ones.

It's the gift of mediocrity.

The Career Tributes have ignored me completely, three are sprawled around the mouth of the Cornucopia shifting through their spoils, laughing and joking. The others check the bodies, making sure they're really dead, killing those who aren't.

"Well, well, well, look who's come to grace us with his presence," Cato says as I walk into view, he's leaning against the curved side of the Cornucopia, looking as casual as if he were at a picnic, except for the sword in his right hand. "It's…Lover Boy."

His condescending nickname for me raises the hairs on the back of my neck. There's malice behind the words. I don't say anything, just watch the hand that practices sword swings, the blade cleaving through the air with a sharp whistle.

"Well, Lover Boy, I've been thinking about our alliance," says Cato. "You see, seven's too big a number. I'm thinking there's not a place for you in my alliance."

With sudden clarity I know Haymitch was trying to warn me when he told both of us to get away from the Cornucopia. He may have suspected something like this, thought better of his earlier advice. He said they were trying to separate us. What better way to separate us than to kill me? I scan the area for an escape route but the others have circled around, blocking me in. They must have planned this. A last act of Cornucopia carnage. Perfect for the cameras.

Cato couldn't care less about the number, it's an excuse to kill me, but it's the only idea my mind latches onto. "I think seven's a good number," I say, trying for a disinterested tone. "Heard somewhere it's lucky."

"Nah, it's odd," says Cato, taking a lazy swing with his sword. "I've never liked odd numbers and it looks to me like you're the odd man out."

Pelles gives a derisive snort. "Are you going to get him or are you going to stand here talking all day?"

"If you want Lover Boy, you can have him," says Cato. "I'm waiting for his little sweetheart."

"I wouldn't say that if you do find her," I say. "She doesn't like being called that."

"I'm sure she won't like anything I've got planned for her," says Cato. "Where is she? Out in the forest? Hiding?"

I shrug. "Probably. I told her we would meet up after I got some supplies from the Cornucopia. I still can't believe she bought what I said during the interview. Pathetic. I just wanted to find out how she got that eleven."

Cato stops swinging his sword, letting his arm fall to his side. Yes, that's the right string to pull his attention. But is it enough to take his mind off killing me? Without me here, there's nothing stopping these predators from hunting her down. And they will, I have no doubts about that.

"And did you? Find out her secret?" Cato asks.

"Not so fast," I say. "What were you saying about the alliance?"

"That's enough," Pelles says. "He's lying, probably doesn't know anything."

Pelles isn't a giant like Cato, but he's powerfully built, strong from hauling in fish in District 4, no doubt. He pulls a straight bladed knife from his waistband, long and thin, flipping the knife from hand to hand with a flourish, playing in up for the cameras. After all, the Hunger Games are part showmanship.

The others hang back, their expressions ranging from expectant to disinterested. Cato looks annoyed, but he's not going to stop Pelles. I can't go anywhere. Negotiating won't work. The Careers and the audience will see it as a weakness, an unforgivable sin. My only option is to fight.

Instinct kicks in and I move into a wrestling stance—muscles tense, knees bent, body angled away from him. His knife slashes out. I dodge out of the way and the knife misses me by inches.

The others melt into the scenery, there but not there, my whole attention focused on Pelles. Focused on his knife as it lashes out, the movement of his feet, the sweat pouring off his blunt face. He attacks again and again, jabbing with the knife. I react, evading his stabs, wishing I'd grabbed a weapon when I had the chance. We shift round the tight circle the Careers have made. I can feel myself lagging, my breath comes out in pants, the knife comes closer and closer to cutting me each time, but I wait for my opening. It comes when I see him start to tire, his knife strikes less precise.

The next time his knife thrusts toward me, I block the blow with my arm. The blade bites into my forearm, but I don't stop. I twist his arm behind his back, rotating hard until he drops the knife.

Pelles struggled against my hold, the motion rubbing against my still healing hands. The slippery fabric of his jacket isn't helping and I know I can't keep this up for long. The moment my grip slips, he reacts, sending me flying over his shoulder. I catch a glimpse of that flawless sky before I'm skidding across the hard packed ground, the air gone from my lungs, the gritty taste of dirt filling my mouth.

I'm only down for a second, but it's long enough for Pelles to find the knife. He rushes toward me and one thought reaches me through the pain—Katniss won't able to face these Careers alone.

Pelles bears down to deliver the strike that will kill me. Time to put Haymitch's advice to the test. Time to stay alive. With one final burst of energy, I grab the hand with the knife and using his own momentum, I drive the blade deep into Pelles' thigh. The boy lets out a howl of shocked pain, ripping the knife from his flesh and the wound jets blood.

I scramble away from him, getting to my feet. The Careers guffaw. "Looks like Lover Boy isn't so useless after all," I hear Cato say.

The knife must have found a main artery because every beat of his heart streams blood. He's hobbling toward the mouth of the Cornucopia when an arrow slams into his leg, causing him to buckle, a second finds his shoulder, followed by one to his neck. He collapses in a heap.

I hear a sharp intake of breath and look over at the rest of the Careers. The girl tribute from District 1, Glimmer, holds the silver bow and arrows from the Cornucopia. Pelles' District 4 partner, Kai, stares at her. Glimmer slings the bow over her shoulder.

"Ally or not, with a wound like that, he was dead weight," say Glimmer. "I did us a favor."

I stare disbelieving at the crumpled figure on the ground. Pelles won't be counted as my kill. Whoever strikes the fatal blow is the one tallied into the Capitol's complex betting system, part of the statistics of each tribute, but that doesn't mean I didn't kill him, that he didn't die because of me.

I bend down and pick up the knife still covered with Pelles' blood all the way to the hilt. The sight turns my stomach, but I put on the mask of casual brutality that the Careers so easily wear. I wave it toward Cato and the others.

"Seems like you have an opening in the alliance after all," I say.

Cato's eyes narrow, but he remains quiet. He turns around and walks toward the lake that sits several hundred yards from the Cornucopia. The adrenaline seeps from my veins and my heart rate begins to return to normal. They aren't going to kill me yet. The rest of us follow him away from the bodies.

Three hovercrafts appear out of the blue, noiseless shadows in the sky. Silently, they use cranes to lift the bodies from the arena, wide claws lowering from the belly of the hovercrafts to gather the dead. They lift up Pelles first, the three arrows still protruding from his body. Each body takes no more than a few seconds to recover, zipping them up into the sky, the Games over and done for them.

Normally, after the bodies are collected at the bloodbath, the Gamemakers begin firing cannons to announce the death toll. Because there are so many deaths in the first few hours, they wait to announce them to save time. We stay where we are listening, but they don't fire the cannons.

Something's wrong. The Gamemakers must not think the fighting is over. The fear that had begun to dissipate roars back to life. I scan the tree line, the patchwork field of tall grasses across from it, even the lake looking for a threat. There's nothing. Is it the Careers? Do they have something else planned? No, they look just as confused as I am.

Then I see it.

Lying about thirty feet from the Cornucopia is one of the bodies. I think it's the boy from District 3. Why would they leave him behind? The boy's covered in blood, but maybe he's not dead yet.

Cato elbows Clove and they lead the others over to the body. I trail behind. I didn't feel it while I was fighting, but my ankle's twisted. My whole body aches, but I'm grateful for the pain. It means I'm still alive.

Cato rears back to give the body a kick when it jumps up, eyes wild. Aside from the blood, the boy doesn't seem hurt. I'm confused for a moment then I get it. He must have pretended to be dead, hiding in plain sight among the bodies. Later, he could have crept away with some of the best supplies, but the Gamemakers took away his cover, leaving him exposed.

The Careers live up to their Wolf Pack reputation, surrounding this boy like they surrounded me earlier. The boy even looks like a hounded rabbit with his lean face and terrified dark eyes.

"Come here, Lover Boy. I've got a job for you," says Cato. "Stick him."

He pulls a short sword from his belt and offers the hilt to me. "You can even use my sword."

I walk up to him, a self-satisfied smile plastered on his face. It's a test. And most likely revenge for what I said earlier. I can't say no unless I want to break the alliance and he knows it. And I'm still expendable. I'm the easiest way to Katniss, but not the only way. The Gamemakers won't let her hide for long. No skill could make her a match for all of them.

I take the sword from him, having to use both my hands. It's heavier than it looks. The insignia of the Capitol is engraved into the hilt. The pack makes a tight opening so I can enter. The boy from District 3 is curled in a shaking ball, his head buried in his knees.

I take another step forward and the boy convulses even deeper into himself, he's not even going to try. I can't stop my breathing from coming out in sharp pants. Everything seemed clearer, easier last night on the roof with Katniss. The line between myself and Capitol monster was certain. It was simple—die helping Katniss. But what if helping Katniss means killing some innocent kid? Here, in this world of horrors, where every law of decency is shattered, what is the right choice? I don't know, but I do know that the person I was yesterday, the real me, would never hurt this boy.

I give a convincing lunge toward him, weapon raised, then I stop as if struck by a thought.

"That was clever, District Three. Pretending to be dead," I say. "They looked through the bodies. How come we didn't find you before?"

He peeks up at me, his eyebrows drawn together. "I…I hid under the boy from District 5," he says.

The boy from District 5, a tall boy, was one of the first tributes to die, a victim of Clove's flying knives.

I let my eyebrows rise, "Resourceful, too."

"Too bad it didn't work," sneers Clove.

"But it would have," I say. "If it wasn't for the Gamemakers, none of us would have figured it out."

"Just kill him, Lover Boy," Cato says. "Unless you want out of the alliance."

"I'll kill him," I say. "But what if he has other ideas? They might be worth keeping him alive."

The others look to Cato for direction, but they're softening, leaning toward my suggestion. Cato crosses his arms across his chest and glares. This is dangerous. I don't need Cato to feel his position is threatened. I don't want him thinking too hard about what I'm doing.

"It's your choice," I say.

Cato holds up his hands, "Find out what he's got."

I level the sword at the boy's neck. "You've got ten seconds to say something worth keeping you alive. One, two…" I continue the countdown slowly, willing him to come up with something, anything. Sweat burns the cuts in my palms and I have to force myself to keep the sword steady.

I make it to eight before he blurts out, "Landmines!"

"What," I say.

"I can reactivate the landmines under the…the…metal plates," he says. "Move them and use them as weapons."

District Three has factories, machines…and explosives. It's his district's specialty. I've never seen the landmines used during the Games. I'm sure no one has ever thought about doing it.

"What are we supposed to do with landmines?" Marvel asks. "Leave them in the forest and hope somebody steps on them?"

The boy from Three shallows hard. "You can set traps. Leave some food as bait. Or…or you could use it to protect the supplies. Set the landmines up so only you can get to the stuff. Anybody else who gets close will be blown to bits."

The Careers like this. Their one weakness is keeping the stockpile safe while they're hunting down other tributes. Losing control of the supplies tips the advantage towards the other districts. Like a few years ago when a mudslide destroyed the food and a girl named Johanna Mason from District 7 won.

"How long would that take?" asks Clove.

"Three or four days," the boy says. "But I'd have to stay here to keep it working."

I suppress a smile. He's not so ready to die, after all. He may have bought himself a few more days.

Clove turns to Cato. "It's a good plan."

"If it works," says Cato.

"And if it doesn't, we can kill him in three or four days," I say. "What difference does it make?"

At that moment, the cannons that announce the tribute deaths boom out. I guess the Gamemakers like my idea. I count the number of the cannons. Eleven tributes dead, thirteen still alive.

We spend the next hour sorting the food and weapons, piling them up about 90 feet from the lake where we set up camp. That's the distance, the boy from District 3, whose name is Feechee, says will be safe from the landmines.

Afterward, the Careers crack open several crates of food, including refrigerated crates that contain rosy hunks of fresh meat wrapped in sterile plastic. It doesn't tempt me, reminding me of the blood still on the ground. This doesn't stop the Careers, they try to build a fire and make every rookie mistake. None of them spent much time at any of the survival stations during training and it shows.

I grab a couple of the packaged meals and head over to where Feechee is fiddling with some wire. Since the bloodbath, he has been dashing around checking the metal plates, unscrewing various panels with a screwdriver from the stockpile.

"Is it safe?" I ask. I gesture to all the dismantled parts littering the ground.

He jumps at my voice before looking up. "Perfectly."

"I thought you might be hungry." I hold up the two plastic containers. "These say turkey." I toss the square package to him and sit down on the ground.

I open the pack to reveal several smaller packets and a folded plastic fork. "Somehow this doesn't look as good as the Capitol food."

Feechee makes a face. "It's not. Most of the food in District Three comes like this." He takes the largest of the packets and reaches for his canister filled with the lake water we purified with iodine drops. He pours about a cup of water into the packet. "You add water to the heater pack and pile the other packets back in. Wait a few minutes then the food's done."

I repeat his actions with my food. After about five minutes, the plastic food bags turn from clear to red indicating the food is ready. The turkey's not half bad, but after days of eating the best food Panem has to offer, it's definitely a downgrade. We both eat in silence as the sun goes down. The lake is so clear that it acts as a mirror, creating a perfect reflection of the reds and oranges of sunset.

"You say you eat this all the time in District Three?" I ask.

"Not this, exactly, but very similar. It's inexpensive and it doesn't go bad. Plus, nobody has time to cook after working in the factories seven days a week."

"When do you rest?" I ask. Even the coal mines in District 12 are closed one day a week.

"At night. At least the adults with day shifts do. Kids over fourteen work the night shift and go half days to school," he says.

"It looks like all that work paid off, today. What you learned saved your life," I say.

"Thank you, for what you did early," says Feechee. "The others…they would have killed me. You, at least, gave me a chance."

I have to remind myself that the audience will hear every word I say. Unless another tribute is somewhere dying or fighting off a wild animal, this conversation is being aired across Panem. Why would I spare a weaker tribute? There are no real rules in the Games, but one of the unspoken ones is kill or be killed and I broke it. How will sponsors see that?

"I did what was best for the alliance," I say.

Marvel walks up eating a hunk of meat impaled on a stick. They must have gotten the fire up after all. "Cato says we're going hunting right after the death recap, so pick a weapon. District Three's staying here to work on the landmines." He throws Feechee a flashlight. "Use this."

I still have the knife I used in the fight with Pelles strapped into my belt. I go to the pile of weapons and select a second knife. This one's larger and serrated, a hunting knife. I also take care of my injuries, finding the first aid kits and slather antiseptic on the cut on my hands and then bandaging everything. An infection is the last thing I need.

I make it to the Career's fire as the anthem plays and the seal of the Capitol is projected in the sky, the same way the words "Happy Hunger Games" were projected above the Training Center last night. I sit on one of the empty crates they didn't use for firewood.

The sky lights up with the image of the first dead tribute, it's in order by district so Feechee's District 3 partner is first. Her head shot and district number flashes once before disappearing. Just her district number, they don't even bother to show our names. I look over at him, to gauge his reaction, but he hasn't stopped tinkering with the metal plates.

Pelles image is next, his face high in the sky above our heads, the first Career tribute to die. For us in the arena, they show the same head shots they used to report our training scores, but at home they're seeing a play-by-play recap of each death. It's possible the recap just shows Glimmer's arrow shots, but more than likely my family is now watching me stab Pelles.

I don't know how I should feel about that or their feelings about me teaming up with the Careers. Everyone I know must hate me, think of me as a coward, a traitor to our district and they may never learn any different. But I knew that before and I was still willing to risk this plan. Maybe Haymitch will tell them later.

Cato and the others are clapping and taking bows for each of their kills. Glimmer takes hers for Pelles, glancing over at me with smugness. Does she think I want credit for any of this?

They're moving on to show the boy from District 5, the one Feechee hid underneath. Districts 6 and 7 each loss both of their tributes. Then it's the boy from 8. Both tributes from 9. The final death is the girl from District 10, then the anthem plays again and the sky goes dark. Both tributes from District 12 survived the first day. I knew Katniss was alive, but the fear that I missed something has lived in the back of my mind all day.

"Now to hunt the rest down!" Cato says. "Let's get going." He pulls out a pair of night vision googles from the supplies and hands a second pair to Clove. "Everyone else get flashlights and torches."

I pull one of the long shards of wood from the fire and Kai grabs another. I haven't heard her say anything since Pelles was killed. She still seems dazed, but as a Career, she is dangerous. I wouldn't put it past her to poison me in my sleep, poison seems like her kind of weapon.

"Let's go see if we can find little miss girl on fire," Glimmer says choosing a torch as well. "See if she likes real flames."

I shrug. "I'm a baker's son. I'm used to burning things."

At night, the forest is a dark and sinister place teeming with sounds made by unseen, scurrying animals. And some of those animals might be armed with more than claws and teeth—knives and spears were abundant at the Cornucopia this year. We follow the stream that feeds the lake for a while before branching off into the forest.

I'm not the only one unfamiliar with the forest. The others seem on edge as well, jerking around, weapons trained on invisible threats.

We are not a quiet group and none of the other tributes stumble into our path. The greater danger comes from the tributes in my alliance, an arrangement that by definition can only be temporary. And I expect it to be broken at any moment. Cato is the nominal leader, but they all argue constantly and jostle for control. I trail behind, not trusting the others, one of my hands resting on the knife in my belt, the other holding the torch above my head.

It's about one or two hours before dawn when Kai calls us over to look at something. The torch light reveals a circlet of wire held in place by saplings on either side.

"It's some kind of trap," Kai says.

"It's a snare," says Cato.

The trainer at the knot-station showed us several snares during our session, but they were all meant to catch human prey. This small and balanced trap, tied by clever fingers, is made for catching animals. Only one person in the arena would have stopped to set a trap like this.

Without a doubt, Katniss Everdeen made this snare.