In the remaining hours before nightfall, I gather rocks and do my best to camouflage the opening of the cave. It's a slow and arduous process, but after a lot of sweating and shifting things around, I'm pleased with my work. The cave now appears to be part of the large pile of rocks, like so many in the vicinity. I can still crawl in to Peeta through a small opening, but it's undetectable from the outside. That's good because I'll need to share the sleeping bag again tonight. Also, if I don't make it back from the feast Peeta will be hidden, but not entirely imprisoned. Although I doubt he can hold on much longer without medicine. If I die at the feast, District 12 isn't likely to have a victor.
I make a meal out of the smaller, bonier fish that inhabit the stream around here, fill every water container and purify it, and clean weapons. I've nine arrows left in all. I leave one knife with Peeta, and keep the other one with me. The knife might help, but Peeta was right about camouflage be his last line of defense. Here are some things that I'm fairly certain of. That at least Cato, Clove, and Thresh will be on hand when the feast starts. I'm not sure about Foxface since direct confrontation isn't her style or forte. She's even smaller than I am and unarmed, unless she pick up some weapons recently. She'll probably be hanging somewhere nearby, seeing what she can scavenge. But the other three… I'm going to have my hands full. My ability to kill at distance is my great asset, but I'm going right into the thick of it to get that backpack, the one with the number 12 on it that Claudius Templesmith mentioned.
I watch the sky, hoping for one less opponent at dawn, but nobody appears tonight. Tomorrow there will be faces up there. Feast always results in fatalities.
I crawl into the cave, secure my glasses, and curl up next to Peeta. Luckily I had that good long sleep today. I have to stay awake. I don't think anyone will attack our cave tonight, but I can't risk missing dawn.
So cold, so bitterly cold tonight. As if the Gamemakers have sent an infusion of cold air across the arena, which may be exactly what they have done. I lie next to Peeta in the bag, trying to absorb every bit of his fever heat. It's strange to be so physically close to someone who's so distant; I wrap my arms around his waist in an attempt to alleviate some of the distance, even though it's pointless. I haven't held him in my arms since we entered the arena. Peeta might as well be back at the Capitol, or in District 12, or on the moon right now, he'd be no harder to reach. I've never felt lonelier since the Games began.
Just accept it will be a bad night. I tell myself.
I try not to, but I can't help but think of mom and Prim, wondering if they will sleep a wink tonight. At this late stage in the Games, with an important event like the feast, school will probably be canceled.
My family can watch on that static-filled old clunker of a television at home or join the crowds in the square to watch on the big, clear screens. They'll have privacy at home, but support in the Square. People will give a kind word, a bite of food if the can spare it. I wonder if the baker has sought them out, especially now that Peeta and I are a team, has he made good on his word to keep Prim's belly full.
Spirits must be running high in District 12. We rarely have anyone to root for at this point in the Games. Surely, people are excited about Peeta and me, especially now that we're, even if it isn't official yet, together. If I close my eyes I can imagine their shouts at the screen, urging us on. I see their facings, Greasy Sae, Madge and even the Peacekeepers that buy my meat, cheering for us.
And Gale. I know him. He won't be shouting and cheering. But he'll be watching, every moment, every twist and turn, willing me to come home.
A stupid thought, but I wonder if he is hoping Peeta will make it as well. I think.
Gale isn't my boyfriend, and I'm going to have to tell him the truth that there is nothing between us. Objectively Gale is a handsome man, no doubt; but I don't think we would be able to tolerate each other if we broke up, and I would hate to lose my hunting partner. Then again will I have to hunt if I win the Games? I can still hunt to help Gale and his family, but only if I can mend the gap that my relationship with Peeta has no doubt cause. The morning of the reaping he mention that we could run away together. Was that just a practical calculation of our chances of our survival away from the district? Or was that something more?
If I get the chance after the Games I'm going to tell Gale the truth. That I willingly gave into these emotions and feelings that I have for Peeta, and that I feel nothing for him. Gale deserves that much, I don't want to string him along and hurt him. I think.
Through a crack in the rocks I watch the moon cross the sky. At which I judge that I'm about three hours from dawn, and I begin my final preparation. I'm careful to leave Peeta the water and the med kit right beside him. Nothing else will be of much use if I don't return, and even these will prolong his life for a short time. After some debate, I strip him of his jacket and zip it up over my own. Not that he needs it anyways; in the sleeping bag with his fever, and during the day, if I'm not there to remove it, he'll be roasting in it. My hands are already stiff from the cold, so I take a pair of Rue's socks, cut holes for my fingers and thumb, and pull them on. It helps, a little. I fill her small pack with a water bottle, some food, and bandages; tucking the knife in my belt and grab my bow and arrows. I stare at Peeta one last time, wishing he was still awake to wish me good luck, but oh well. And yet again for my own benefit, than that of the people back at the Capitol or in District 12, I give Peeta a long lingering, kiss; and all I feel is the fever, not the life I felt when kissing him before entering the arena. I imagine the teary sighs emanating from the Capitol, and leave before I have to wipe real tears of my own.
I squeeze through the opening in the rocks out into the night. My breathe makes small white clouds as it hits the air. It's a cold November night back home. One where I slipped into the woods, with lantern in hand, to join Gale at some prearranged place where we sitting bundled together drinking herbal tea in metal flasks wrapped in quilting, hoping game will pass our way as the morning comes on. I think in my head who would be the better to have a backup. Weapons wise Gale because he could back me up from a distance at the feast, but when it comes down to it Peeta's wrestling skills while be crucial when we get to the end. I will have to face off against ever Cato, or Clove in close range; which makes my bow and arrow useless.
I move as fast as I dare. The glasses are quite remarkable, but I sorely miss having the use of my left ear. I don't know what that explosion did, but it damaged something deep and irreparable. You know what, never mind.
If I get home, I'll be so stinking rich I'll be able to pay someone to do my hearing for me. I think, with a chuckle.
The woods always look different at night. Even with the glasses, everything has an unfamiliar slant to it. As if the daytime trees and flowers have gone to bed and sent slightly more ominous versions of themselves to take their place. I don't try anything tricky, like taking a new route. I make my way back up the stream and follow the same path back to Rue's hiding place near the lake. Along the way, I see no sign of another tribute; not a puff of breathe, no quiver of a branch. Either I'm the first to arrive, or the others positioned themselves last night. There's still an hour, or two, when I wiggle into the underbrush and wait for the blood to begin to flow again.
I chew a few mint leaves, my stomach isn't up for much more. Thank goodness I brought Peeta's jacket besides mine. If not, I would be forced to move around to stay warm. The sky turns a misty morning gray and still there's no sign of the other tributes. Everyone has either distinguished themselves by strength, deadliness or cunning. Do they suppose, I wonder, that they think I have Peeta with me? I doubt Foxface and Thresh knows he has been wounded. All the better for them to think he's covering me when I go for the backpack.
But where is it? It's lightened enough for me to take off my glasses. I can hear the morning birds singing their songs. For a second, I'm panicked that I'm at the wrong location. But no, I'm certain I remember Claudius Templesmith specifying the Cornucopia. And then there it is. And here I am.
So where's the feast? I think to myself.
Just as the first ray of sunlight glints off the gold Cornucopia, there's a disturbance on the plain. The ground in front mouth of the horn splits in two and a table and a round table with a snowy white cloth rises into the arena. On the table sits four backpacks: two large ones with number 2 and 11, a medium size green one with a number 5, and a tiny orange one that was mark with a 12. The table clicks into a place when a figure darts out of the Cornucopia and grabs the green backpack, and speeds off.
Foxface! I think in shocked amazement.
Leave it to her to come with such a clever and risky idea! The rest of us poised around the plain, sizing up the situation, and she's got hers. She's got us trapped; nobody wants to chase after and leave our backpack vulnerable on the table. That was probably Foxface's plan: leave the others because to take one of the others would brought a pursuer after her. That should have been my strategy! By the time I worked through the emotions of surprise, admiration, anger, frustration, and jealousy I watching the reddish mane of hair disappear into the woods; well out of range of my arrows. Huh, I've been dreading the others, but maybe Foxface was my real enemy here.
She's cost me time, too, because it's clear I'm the next one to get to the table. Anyone who beats me to it can easily scoop up my pack and be gone. Without hesitation, I sprint for the table. I can sense the emergence of danger before I see it. Fortunately, the first knife comes whizzing in on my right side so I can hear it and I'm able to deflect it with my bow. I turn, drawing my bowstring back and send an arrow straight at Clove's heart. She turns just enough to avoid the fatal hit, but the point punctures her upper left arm. Unfortunately, she throws with her right arm, but it's enough to slow her down for a few minutes, to pull it out of her arm, and take in the severity of the wound. I keep moving, positioning the next arrow automatically, as only someone who has been hunting for years can do.
I'm at the table now, my fingers closing over the tiny orange backpack. My hands slip between the strap and I yank it up on my arm, it's really too small to fit on any other part of my anatomy, and I'm turning to fire again when the second knife catches me in the forehead. It slices me above my right eyebrow, open a gash that sends a gush running down my face, blinding my eye, filling my mouth with the sharp, metallic taste of my own blood. I stagger backwards, but I still manage to send my readied arrow in the general direction of me assailant. I know as soon as it leaves my hand it misses. And then Cloves slams into me knocking me to the ground, pinning my shoulders to the ground with her knees.
So this is how it ends, I won't beg for my life! I think.
I pray for a fast death, but Clove means to savor the kill. No doubt Cato is somewhere nearby, guarding her, keeping an eye out for Thresh.
"Where's your boyfriend District Twelve? Still hanging on?" Clove asks.
If we're going to talking, I can use that to my advantage. I think.
"I won't beg for mercy, but if you're going to kill me I would suggest that you get started now. There's still one more pack up there." I say.
Just as Clove starts talking I feel the emotion building up in me, but I didn't miss the taunt that was coming.
"You lie! There is nobody coming for you!" She says. "Peeta is nearly dead, Cato knows where he cut him. You've probably got him strapped up in a tree while you try to keep his heart going. What's in the pretty little backpack? The medicine for lover boy? Too bad he won't get it."
Clove opens her jacket, and I see that it's line with an impressive array of knives. I see Clove select a dainty-looking number with a cruel, curved blade.
"I promised Cato that if he let me have you that I would give the audience a show." Clove says.
I stared at her defiantly, hoping that she would get to the point. I give her a pointed look, knowing the spiel is coming next.
"Forget it District Twelve. We're going to kill you. Just like we killed your pathetic little ally…. What was her name? The one who hopped around in the trees? Rue? Well first Rue, then you, then I think we'll let nature take care of Lover Boy. How does that sound?" Clove asked.
She wipes blood away from my wound with her jacket sleeve. For a moment, she surveys my face, tilting it from side to side like it's a block of wood and she's deciding what design to carve on it. I attempt to bite her hand, but she grabs the hair on the top of my head, forcing me back to the ground.
"I think, I'll start with your lips." She purrs.
I clamp my teeth together as she teasingly traces the outline of my lips with the tip of the blade. I won't close my eyes. The comment about Rue has filled me with fury; enough fury I think to die with some dignity. As my last act of defiance, I will stare her down as long as can, which will not be an extended period of time, but I will stare her down, I will not cry out in agony; I will die, in my own small way, undefeated.
"Yes, I don't think you will have much use for her lips anymore. Want to blow lover boy one more kiss?" she asks.
I work up a mouthful of blood and saliva, and spit it in her face. She flushes with anger.
"Let get started, shall we?" She asks.
I brace myself for the agony that is sure to follow. But as I feel the tip open the first cut at my lip, some great force yanks Clove from my body and then she's screaming, which turns into a strangled cry. I'm too stunned at first, unable to process what has happened. Has Peeta come to save me? Have the Gamemakers sent some wild beast to add to the fun? Has a hovercraft inexplicably plucked her into the air? I still hear Clove struggling to breath; she tries to cry out, but it keeps coming out as a strangled cry.
But when I push myself up on my elbows, I see it's none of the above. Clove is a foot of the ground, with her back pinned to the Cornucopia, her throat trapped in Thresh's hand. I let out a gasp, seeing him like that, towering over me, holding Clove like a rag doll. I remember him being big, but he seems more massive, more powerful than I recall. If anything, he seems to have gained weight in the arena. I didn't see it at first, but Thresh had a rock in his hand; and it's a big one. I know what he plans on doing with that thing.
Somehow "I told you so," just doesn't quite say it. I think.
He releases Clove, and she falls to the ground. When he shouts, I jump, never having heard him speak above a mutter.
"What'd you do to the little girl? You kill her?" Thresh asks.
Clove is scrambling back on all fours, like a frantic insect, too shocked to call for Cato.
"No! No! It wasn't me!" Clove shrieks.
"You said her name. I heard you. You kill her?" He asks.
Another thought brings a fresh wave of rage to his features.
"You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl her?" He asks.
"No! No! I-"
Clove cuts herself off when she sees the stone in Thresh's hands, it the size of a small loaf of bread, and loses it.
"Cato! Cato!" Clove screeches.
"Clove!" I hear Cato's answer, but he was too far away, I can tell that much, to do her any good.
What was he doing? Trying to get Foxface or Peeta? Or had he been lying in wait for Thresh and had badly misjudged his location. Thresh brings the rock down hard against Cloves temple. It's not bleeding, but there's a dent in her skull, and I can tell that she's a goner. There's still life: the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the low moans escaping her lips.
When Thresh whirls around on me, with the rock raised, I know it's no good to run. My bow is empty, the last arrow I shot having gone in Clove's direction. I'm trapped in the glare of his strange golden brown eyes.
"What'd she mean? About Rue being your ally?" He asks.
"I-I- we teamed up. Blew up the supplies. I tried to save her, I did. But he got to her first. District One." I say.
Maybe if he knows that I help rue, maybe he won't choose some slow, sadistic end for me.
"And you killed him?" Thresh demands.
"Yes. I killed him. And buried her in flowers, and sang her to sleep." I say.
Tears spring into my eyes. The tension, the fight goes out of me at the memory. I'm overwhelmed by Rue, the pain in my head, my fear of Thresh, and the moaning of the dying girl just a few feet away.
"To sleep?" Thresh says gruffly.
"To death. I sang until she died. You district… they sent me bread." I say, as I reach up to wipe my nose.
"Do it fast, okay, Thresh?" I ask.
Conflict emotions crosses his face. Thresh lowers the rock, and then points at me, almost accusingly.
"Just this one time, I'll let you go. For Rue. You and me, were even. After this we will be enemies, do you understand?" He asks.
He put emphasis on the last word. I nod because I understand. About owing. About hating it. I understand that if Thresh wins he will have to go back to a district that broke the rules to thank me, and he is breaking the rules to thank me, too. And I understand, at that moment, that Thresh isn't going to smash my skull in.
"Clove!" I hear Cato scream. I can tell by the pain in his voice he sees her on the ground.
"You better run now, Fire Girl." Thresh says.
I don't have to be told twice. I flip over and my feet dig into the hard packed earth as I run away from Thresh, Clove and the sound of Cato's voice. Only when I reach the woods do I turn back for an instant. Thresh and both large back packs are disappearing over the edge of the plain into the area I've never seen before. Cato kneels down beside Clove, spear in hand, begging her to stay with him. In a moment he will realize that it is futile, she can't be saved. I crash into the trees repeatedly wiping at the blood that's pouring into my eyes; fleeing like the wild, wounded creature that I am. After a few minutes I hear a cannon and I know that Clove has died, and Cato will be on either mine or Thresh's trail. I'm seized with terror, weak from my head wound, shaking. I load an arrow, but Cato can throw a spear almost as far as I can shoot.
Only one thing calms me down: Thresh has Cato's backpack containing the item he desperately needs. If I had to bet, Cato would go after Thresh not me. Still I don't slow down until I reach the water. I plunge right in, with my boots still on, and flounder downstream. I pull off Rue's socks that I have been using as gloves and press them to my forehead, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but they're soaked in minutes.
Somehow I make it back to the cave, and squeeze through the rocks. In the dapple light, I pull the little orange backpack from my arm, cut open the clasp, and dump the contents on the ground. One slim box containing a hypodermic needle. Without hesitating I jam the needle into Peeta's arm and slowly press down the plunger. I brush Peeta's hair back, and kiss his forehead. When I lean back from kissing Peeta, my hands go to my head and then drop back to my lap, slick with blood.
The last thing I remember is an exquisitely beautiful green and sliver moth landing on the curve of my wrist.