It's absolute chaos. I send arrow after arrow as the monkeys lunge forward, jaws snapping, claws sweeping. The way they move is unnatural. They are too fast to track, too swift to target. I can only react as they leap at me, teeth borne.
"They're Mutts!" I scream out, but I'm sure Peeta and Finnick already know.
Peeta slashes with his long knife, and a corpse flies away from him. Finnick is swift with his trident, stabbing and heaving creature after creature, but more plow through the woods and the sheer volume begins to overtake us. We press our backs together and attack what's in front of us. I reach to my sheath and find my last arrow. A Mutt has reached me before I can even load my bow, and I jam the arrow through its jaw and into its head. I use its limp body to deflect another attacker, and scream to Peeta, who has my extra quiver. He only turns for a second, sliding the bag of arrows off his shoulder and into my hand, but I see the Mutt fly at him. I know I can't get my bow loaded in time. I watch helplessly as Peeta turns and throws his arms defensively in front of his face when a woman comes flying out from the bushes and leaps in front of Peeta. The Mutt sinks its teeth into her throat and she makes a horrible gargling sound. Peeta stabs his knife into the monkey's back again and again until it falls limp. He throws the Mutt from her body and steps in front of her, placing himself between her and the rest of the pack.
"Come on then! Come on!" he screams at them, his voice filled with rage, knife drawn. They back away from him slowly, and Peeta drops to his knees to check the woman.
"Who is it?" I yell, covering Peeta.
"It's the morphling!" he cries out, shoving his arms under her and lifting her in the air. Some of the Mutts still engage, but most begin withdrawing back into the jungle, as if possessed. Peeta bolts for the beach, Finnick following and me taking up the rear firing arrow upon arrow into the mob. Peeta charges through the trees until his feet hit sand. I cross the tree line and, like the fog, the remaining monkeys shriek but are unable to move toward us. Finnick guards them anyway, trident out, and I run down the beach to Peeta.
The morphling is in his lap, gurgling and drowning in her own blood as it pours into her lungs and out of her neck. He rocks her slowly, his voice soft. It sounds like nonsense, but the words aren't meant for me. "I paint. At home, I paint. With watercolors and with oil paints. Sometimes I try to make my own out of berries or coffee. And on my palette, I can mix any color you can think of." Her eyes fix to Peeta. Her face is camouflaged with mud and juice and what appears to be her own blood. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated like two black holes. Her chest convulses as she chokes, but she listens to Peeta. She tries to hold on to something beautiful in her last moments, instead of focusing on her own body as it gives up. As she dies in the sand. "I can make green, like spring grass. And pink, light as a baby's skin. I can make orange, like a sunset burning off in the sky." Her eyes flutter shut, and in a moment she's gone. Peeta still talks to her, holding her against his chest as her warm blood pooling between them. A cannon slams and he flinches, holding her tighter before he gently lays the morphling on the sand. I take his hand and we step away from her backwards, keeping our eyes on her gaunt, bony body as the hovercraft appears and drops down a metal claw to collect her remains. Peeta doesn't stop watching until the doors close and she's gone.
"Why would she do that?" he breathes, guilt heavy in his voice.
"I don't know," I answer back. Did Haymitch make deals with these people? Does she have family she's trying to protect? She doesn't even know us. I don't even know her name. Our image is important to the rebellion, yes, but Peeta and I are going to die in here. We all know it. Why would she sacrifice her one chance at survival for a lost cause? We're silent.
"I think Mags killed herself for us," I whisper. "Finnick would have made it out without us. If it had just been the two of them they'd probably both still be here. I think she threw herself in the fog so he could get us out."
He shakes his head. It doesn't make any sense.
"I didn't want you dying for me, and I certainly don't want anyone else dying for me either," he says, defeated. "I'm not worth it." We're both silent, feeling undeserving and small.
Finnick rejoins us, his fist filled with arrows covered in monkey blood. "I thought you might want these," he says, dropping them next to me on the sand.
"Thanks," I offer and walk to the shore to clean the gore from my weapons. After I finish, we all stare at the jungle, numb and exhausted.
"We might be safer on the beach," I say out loud. I know it's what everyone in thinking. I look over and notice Finnick scratching his face, ripping open a scab from where he was burned by the fog. "Don't scratch, you'll get infected," I scold, swatting at his hand. I don't think he realized what he was doing it, and he looks at the blood on his fingertips. We all look horrible. Our skin is scabbed and marred. We're covered in blood and flesh and wounds of war. I notice my fingers subconsciously itching my arm and I still them at my side.
It's morning, but the sky is still dark.
"You guys should get some sleep," Finnick states. I'm about to offer to take watch, but I look in his eyes and realize he's barely holding back tears. He needs some time alone to mourn Mags.
"Thanks," I say, and Peeta squeezes his shoulder. We lie down in the sand a dozen or so feet away. Peeta curls his body protectively around mine and weaves his fingers with my hand.
"Katniss, where's your ring?" Peeta whispers, running his thumb along my finger.
"Cinna has it. I could only take one token into the Arena, and I wanted my pin." For the rebellion, I think. "For luck," I say.
His eyes look sad as his thumb grazes my bare skin. "It's probably better. You might have lost it," he says. He's right. I could have lost my whole left hand, my whole left arm – let alone a tiny metal ring. Still, I realize I'll probably never see it again. I don't think Cinna is alive. I don't know for certain, but something in my gut tells me he's no longer with me. A lump sits in my throat like a rock, making it hard to swallow. Peeta rubs a tense spot in my back, and I sigh softly in encouragement. Eventually he dozes off. I feel him breathe behind me. I feel his heart hammer into my back. Normally it slows in his sleep, but here, he can't even rest inattentively.
I look up at the dusky sky and think about what a difference a day makes. Just hours ago Finnick was on my kill list, but now I'm letting him watch over us while we sleep. I wonder about that peculiar boy with the bronze skin who loves an old woman and a girl with auburn hair. Who has his own people to protect. Who saved my life. Who saved Peeta. Who else is he trying to save? Maybe everyone but himself.
I let myself sleep. I wake in the midmorning with Peeta still sleeping beside me. I sit up and see Finnick has had a productive morning. On the beach are three woven bowls full of water and one with shellfish. Finnick is on the sand, cracking the oysters open with a stone.
"Morning," he says, keeping his swollen, red eyes on the task at hand. I pretend not to notice.
"Morning," I say back, sitting beside him.
"They're better fresh," Finnick advises, ripping a chunk of flesh from the shell and popping it in his mouth. I go to reach for one, but the site of my hands makes me take pause. My fingernails are caked in blood. I've been digging at my skin in my sleep.
"You know, scratching leads to infection," he says in a sarcastic tone, and I shove him playfully before going to clean up in the saltwater. It stings and bites at my prickly wounds, and I'm not sure which is worse – the itching or the pain.
I look up at the sky. "Hey Haymitch, if you aren't too drunk out there we could really use something for our skin!" I yell toward the clouds. A parachute immediately drops from the sky and Finnick chuckles.
"Did that seriously work?" he asks with a grin. I shrug my shoulders and open the silver parachute. Inside is a metal tube. I screw the cap off and pour some of its contents into my hands. The smell is repugnant and it makes my nose wrinkle, but when I spread it on the worst burn on my leg, the immediate relief makes me involuntarily sigh in pleasure. "Oh Peeta!" Finnick cries in a high voice that is supposed to me. "Oh right there. That scab. That's how I like it!" I scowl at him and he teases. His voice lowers again. "You look like you're decomposing."
It's true. The ointment is a dark gray that dries to a sick green on my skin. The scabs are still visible underneath it, and I look like my skin has begun to rot and peel away from its body. I hardly care. I'd rather look like a corpse than deal with that itching for one more second.
"So you don't mind if Peeta and I keep the tube for ourselves, then?" I ask, and his tone changes quickly.
"Katniss…" He pounces and tries to take the tube from my hand. I bury it underneath me in the sand, and I feel his hands clawing and digging behind me. We're both laughing until tears pour down our cheeks, and I start to wonder if this is kind of what Peeta's childhood was like. Wrestling with his brother, out of breath and smiling. He has a reason to go home. There is some happiness waiting for him there. I finally relent and toss Finnick the tube. He slathers the ointment all over his body.
"Poor Finnick. Must be the first time in your whole life you don't look pretty," I mock.
"It is. Maybe you can give me some tips. How have you dealt with it for all these years?" he asks back. That's it. Finnick is alright.
"I'm going to wake up Peeta," I say, and he grabs my arm.
"Wait, let's both do it," he offers, eye brows twitching in a devious sort of way. I smile and we creep up to Peeta slowly, getting our decomposing faces only inches from his.
"Peeta…" I call out in a sing-song kind of tone. "Peeta…"
He opens his eyes slowly, and as they come in to focus on our ghoulish faces, he screams and claws back away from us in the sand. Finnick and I fall back in the sand laughing.
"Ow, ow," I clutch my abdomen, but the laughter doesn't stop. Peeta tries to stare indignantly at us, but it keeps breaking into a smile. He applies the ointment, and we help each other on places we can't reach on our backs. It all seems kind of jovial until the cannon booms and set us back into reality. Our eyes follow the sound to a part of the forest where the trees are shaking from their roots. The hovercraft appears and drops its claw again and again, picking up the scattered remains of the tribute below. I don't want to know what's over there. Finnick looks visibly shaken. He's worried who that was. Peeta places his hand on Finnick's back in comfort, and another parachute falls from the sky. Another message from Haymitch. Be friends with Finnick.
Peeta opens the parachute and when Finnick sees the contents, he snatches them away, turning it over in his fingers. There's no need. It's obvious this gift of bread is from District 4. It has that distinctive green tint to it Peeta pointed out to me on our Tour. They derive their salt from seaweed. I wonder why he's acting so possessive over it. Maybe it reminds him of Mags. "Well, this will go good with the shellfish," he says as he tosses it back to Peeta, picking up his usual nonchalant attitude. Peeta eyes him warily. We eat until we are all stuffed and discuss our next steps. We agree we stay on the beach. The jungle is full of unknown dangers. At least here we'll see whatever is trying to kill us coming.
Off in the distance we hear rumbling, and our eyes bolt up to see an enormous wave cresting at the top of the forest across from us. We stand immediately and watch as it crashes and falls through the jungle, roaring and surging forward until it overtakes the beach and slams into the salt lake with such force that water invades the shore of the entire beach, pushing the aftershock twenty feet onto the sand. The water covers our feet and pulls away what remains of our meal were still sitting in the sand. Our jaws drop open.
"I guess they don't stay off the beach," Peeta mumbles. Our previous sense of security appears to be entirely unwarranted. Clearly the Gamemakers were worried we'd hesitate to kill each other. The jungle is full of strange death traps. We either stay in the terrors of the woods, or they force us together on the beach, which will inevitably lead to a battle. Peeta wraps his hand around mine. He's here. He's still with me. They've both realized this same inevitability.
We decide to stay and rearrange our things in the wet sand. We are about to settle when I see them. Three figures, two or three spokes away, stumbling onto the beach. I nudge Peeta, and he and Finnick raise their heads to see what I see. As if by some unspoken agreement, we all clandestinely slink back into the tree line to observe them.
We're not alone anymore.