Ampere Henry, 14 & Austin Hexson, 18
~District 5 Tributes
daydreamer626 and MCPBN
...
-Ampere-
Screams from the Bloodbath follow us as we run for what seems like forever, planting themselves in my head. It seems horrible, but I'm reassured when Austin groans—it means he's still alive. I struggle to keep moving, my left arm throbbing angrily; if I stop, we're both dead.
I slow down, panting, feeling my adrenaline fade. I don't know how many times we've backtracked and gone in a different direction. The snow has stopped falling, and I can see clearly for the first time since I stepped into the tube that took me to the arena. We're in a white forest. We must've run downhill, because there's a hill behind us.
I prop Austin up on a tree trunk, then shrug off the pack and set it next to him. His left hand is stained with blood, clutching his right side. There's a decent–sized gash, with something—I assume the rock—poking through. His face has a few cuts and scrapes, but those can wait. I move his hand away. The bleeding has slowed somewhat. I probe his side (probably not the best thing to do), and he groans loudly.
"Sorry," I whisper hurriedly. "Sorry. I'll be right back."
I twist and pull, one–handed, at low-hanging branches, and they come loose after much grumbled cursing.
"This'll have to do," I say apologetically, forcing his mouth open and making him bite down on a twig.
I smile briefly (despite the situation) at how absurd he looks, but just as quickly refocus. I ball up some snow and press it to the wound, hoping the cold will numb his pain. At least he's sleeping. Or unconscious.
One edge of the rock is close to the opening, so I steel myself and push it down. Austin immediately screams, so agonized I know he's awake. The rock's edge is exposed. My heart's thudding, and I'm getting nauseated. Before I can chicken out, I grab it and yank.
Austin visibly relaxes, and I take a deep breath as I place a hand on his cheek. "It's over." He frantically shakes his head, face contorted.
"What?" I ask. "What do I need to do?"
Austin spits the twig out. I almost miss what he says—"Cauterize."
He lays back and closes his eyes. I take his even breathing as a sign he's fast asleep.
The cannons boom, and don't stop until they've sounded eight times. A third of us are gone. I look at Austin, who hasn't moved.
I break as many branches as I can bear, and make a splint. I hate it, but I have to take off my jacket and shirt; I'm relieved to be wearing a tanktop underneath. The cold bites into my skin, which turns blue as I fumble.
It takes many tries to line two branches parallel to my arm. Then I pull out my hair band and tie it twice around the splint, making sure to keep it centered. That shouldn't get in my way too much. I carefully put my clothes back on, and rub my arms to warm myself.
I take some of Austin's wire—about as much as I dare; he risked his life for it—and make a circle about three inches wide. I pick two smaller branches, and thrust the wire into the tight forks on their ends for support. I tie the rest of the trap wire to a tree. The snare's purpose is to snap the neck of an animal, like a squirrel or rabbit, as it struggles to escape the noose.
I break branches using my legs and good arm; the wood needs to be smaller for a spark to catch. I use Austin's rock to dig through the snow and make a little area for a fire.
I remember his scratched face, and cover it with a thin layer of snow. Then I pat it with my gloved hands, absorbing the water.
…
Hours later, dusk approaches. Like in training, I build a twig pyramid over a pile of pine needles. Then gather more needles, and spread them carefully around the pyramid so as to catch the spark easier.
I grab leftover twigs and rub them together furiously, careful to keep the left one still. I'm about to give up when a spark flies off and catches some of the needles, promptly spreading to the others. While I try not to breathe in smoke, I open the white pack.
I find a red-and-green apple; a tomato; a medium-sized tin of clam chowder soup; a roll of bandages; an empty dark green plastic bottle; a silver cooking pot; a light brown spoon, fork, and knife set tied together with thin string; a blue sleeping bag (like the blue one would see in a rainbow); black wool socks; a plastic tube of salt about three inches tall; a twelve-ounce bottle of rubbing alcohol...and something sharp.
I hold the ten-inch combat knife and smile. I feed the fire, wait, then thrust the knife in. I can't stop glancing around nervously; making a fire at dusk is less risky than if I had done it after taking the rock out, but the chance of being found doesn't completely disappear.
An eternity seems to pass before the knife is finally glowing, emitting so much heat that I can feel it on the back of my hand. I put another twig in Austin's mouth.
His eyes flutter open. I make sure they catch the red knife blade so he knows what will happen.
"Oh, Austin, why'd you have to wake up now?" I ask, not expecting a response.
Then I hold the knife against his wound. His jaw clenches, and his face bunches together. I breathe through my mouth to avoid the acrid smell of burning flesh. I adjust it, making sure to cover each part.
I plunge the knife into the snow, then ball more up in my hand and press it to Austin's side. He relaxes.
I bury the fire and wave away the smoke, then ease myself next to him, suddenly feeling exhausted. My stomach rumbles. I take the tomato out of the bag and eat that.
Panem's anthem blares through the silence, and I look to the sky, deciding not to wake Austin. Now to see who's dead.
The boy from 1, who I remember as having wicked accuracy with spears, appears first. (I smirk in satisfaction.) Then the snotty girl from 3; both from 6; the girl from 7, who was only twelve, and the girls from 10, 11, and 12.
So there's still six Careers, including the boy from 9.
I dig a hole long enough for Austin to fit in, then drag him by the arms (so painful). I fall on my butt more than once. I pull his hood over his head, completely unzip the sleeping bag, and cover him.
Gripping the knife—so far our sole weapon—I hide myself in a nearby bush and get comfortable for the long night ahead.
-Austin-
I only remember certain things.
Blurry, choppy memories.
The blizzard stopping as we reach the woods, leaves and branches hitting my face.
...
Awakening to find a twig in my mouth, and Ampere pulling out the rock. It's like she's pulling out an organ. I scream into the twig, then the pain subsides.
She touches her hand to my cheek. "It's over."
I shake my head. With every shake, my side throbs harder.
"What? What do I need to do?"
I spit out the twig. "Cauterize," I breathe.
I lay my head back and fall asleep.
...
I awake again, hearing the faint crackle of burning wood. I see the red-hot edge of a knife.
"Oh, Austin, why'd you have to wake up now?" she says sadly.
Then without warning, she presses the knife to my side. Pure heat shoots up my body, and I pass out.
Clarily Montane, 14 ~ District 8 Female
Revolution Mockingjay
My belly rumbles, even though I had a large breakfast. I bite into one of the carrots clutched in my numbing hand—then quickly eat the whole thing. I look longingly at the second.
I hear footsteps, and grip my loaded crossbow. They go silent. I hold my breath and close my eyes.
Then—
To anyone else, it would sound like someone whistling, their foot tapping against the snow. (I grin.) But I know this rhythm: Safe Place. Only District 8 does—and the only other person from District 8 is Ramie.
I try to whistle back, but my lips are too cold. So I follow the whistling.
I hear another footstep and stop walking. Two, three—is it Ramie or another tribute? My heart pounds. I slowly creep along. They stop. I freeze.
This is ridiculous.
I hum Safe Place. Snow crunches almost immediately, and I dash blindly forward; something rams into me; I fall, the crossbow flying out of my hand; I almost reach for it—when I see him.
"Clarily!"
"Ramie!"
He gives me a hand up, and I hug him.
"I'm so glad you're all right," Ramie says, hugging me back.
"I'm glad you are, too," I reply, unable to stop smiling. Happy to not be alone.
"Let's go find a good place to hide."
I scoop up my crossbow, and Ramie leads me through the trees. "I hate snow," I mumble, as I kick the white stuff off my shoes.
…
We arrive in a small area encircled by trees. In the center is a sleeping bag. Ramie shows me everything in his backpack from the Bloodbath.
"I wasn't able to get much." I nod toward my crossbow and carrot. "One of the Careers found me; I don't know why, but he didn't kill me. Anyway, I'm good with a bow—so if there are any animals, I might be able to hunt."
"Awesome! Not bad, eh? We have a nice shot at this."
An image of Ramie dead on the ground flashes through my head. Will I be able to kill him if it comes down to it? All that time preparing for the Games, I always thought I could. But now I know the truth.
"Are you hungry?" Ramie holds out peach slices.
"Yes, please! I already had one of the carrots; I saved the other for you." I hand it to him.
"I miss them already—my family," Ramie says quietly.
Thankfulness floods through me as I realize that he could have just abandoned me; he could have ignored our alliance and left me to die in the cold. But he didn't.
"But I'm glad I have you," I reply.
The corners of his mouth go upward. "So, what's our plan for tomorrow?"
At the exact same time, we say, "Water."
"Okay—when we both are up in the morning, we'll pack and get to finding a river, stream, or lake…there has to be some source."
"Sounds good."
The national anthem blares, causing me to jump.
Ramie makes funny faces at me while singing along, and I can't help but laugh.
Then I stop laughing and stare at the faces of the fallen, flashing by one-by-one. I desperately want to close my eyes, tell myself that they aren't really dead, but they are. They're never going back to their families.
Will my face appear in the sky at some point?
Ramie looks toward me, and I try to hide my emotions. I don't know what to do.
"Do you want me to take first watch?" he asks.
"No, I can," I say, seeing that his eyelids are already drooping. "I'm not very tired."
"Thanks," he replies gratefully. "We can share the sleeping bag; it would be terrible if my only ally's pretty fingers and toes froze off."
"Thank you." I blush.
Ramie helps me up from the ground. "I'll be right back," he says, walking away from the campsite.
He's picked a great place. We're well–sheltered, and though it's small there's enough room for the two of us. I straighten out the sleeping bag as best I can.
I whip my head around as a twig crunches, and raise my crossbow.
"Whoa there, it's just me!" Ramie exclaims, holding up a hand in surrender.
"You scared me, Ramie!"
He laughs and puts his hand down. He yanks the sleeping bag, making it completely wrinkled. ("Hey!") "Sorry, but the ground is freezing cold," Ramie says. "I figure that if we put some leaves under it…" He puts the leaves down, and then puts the sleeping bag on top. "There."
"It looks like a nest," I comment.
Ramie crawls in. I squeeze next to him, finally situating myself so that we both fit. "Wake me up when you start to get sleepy, or if you notice anything. Goodnight, ally." He turns around.
I sit up slightly; I have a feeling that if I lay down I'll fall asleep.
I grip my crossbow and look around. Cold wind throws itself at me and whips my hair back.
Ramie's back moves up and down, his face against the sleeping bag. I smile at his sleeping figure, and examine the forest again. It's quiet other than the wind beating against the trees. I put my face under the sleeping bag for a few seconds to warm it.
Marabeth is probably in bed. Not sure what Perenthos and Mom are doing…maybe they're watching me. I smile reassuringly in case.
Maybe they'll let both of us win.
I almost laugh. Why? After all these years, why would we be so important that They'd make a rule change?
You aren't important. Therefore, they won't.
Miles Dreft, 14 ~ District 12 Male
CrazyTARDIS825
My eyes sting as cold, biting wind rushes at them, and all I see is endless white. A blizzard, I think with terror. There have only ever been a few in District 12, but I know they're bad news.
I search desperately for something to make my way towards. There are a few dark shapes near me (which I suspect are other tributes).
The announcer, his voice magnified over the din, exclaims, "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Thirty–eighth Hunger Games begin!"
The gong sounds, and I shuffle madly on my platform before leaping into the snow that's already beginning to pile up. The Cornucopia is ahead of me, a huge dark blob.
I try to stay out of the way of the other dark, moving shapes, and search the ground. A half–frozen loaf of bread wrapped in plastic catches my eye, and I dive for it.
I scramble to my feet and race around the Cornucopia, easily forgetting which direction I have come from. My feet tangle, and I nearly trip and fall. A fishing net! This thing will be invaluable, if I can find a body of water large enough to hold fish. I untangle myself as quickly and carefully as I can, trying not to tear the precious rope.
Shadowy blobs loom in the sky. Trees. A forest. That's my best bet. I trudge towards it, then shout aloud as something flies past my face. Someone has hit me with a throwing knife.
I look behind me and barely make out Minte, the girl from District 1. She lets another knife fly, hitting me in the side, piercing my jacket and shirt and leaving a small but painful gash on the side of my chest. I press my hand to it and clutch my precious few supplies, then stumble blindly through the snow, my only thought to get away from the bloodshed.
I finally reach thick tree trunks. The snow is broken up by the great limbs.
I think I see a few other tributes, but I can't be sure. My vision is still adjusting, and may very well be playing tricks on me. I try to move away from them as fast as possible. God knows who they might be, or what provisions they might have.
The ground steepens, and I slip on the slick snow. I grasp onto a bush. I have no idea what may lie at the edge of this incline. I painstakingly pull myself back up, careful not to tear the bush from its roots.
I move adjacent the incline, keeping an eye out for food, somewhere to camp, and adversaries.
At sometime around eleven, the cannons go off in the distance. I stop, counting each one. One, two, three, four…eight. Eight cannons in all. I wonder who died.
My mind wanders to Rhiannon, and I hope that she's not dead, so maybe one of us may survive.
I also wonder if any of the Careers were killed. Maybe one or two at most.
I continue walking as soon as the air falls quiet. No birds. No insects. Nothing. Just wind and crunching snow.
I gather snow every so often to melt and drink. It's such an easy way to get water, the Gamemakers might have done something to it. Like hallucinogens, or poison that causes me to bleed from the inside out. I shake my head to clear these morbid thoughts. I have to focus at the task at hand: find a body of water, and shelter. Shelter is essential.
I walk for I–don't–know–how–long. I'm not sure if the slope is still next to me, and don't care to find out. The murky sky starts to darken despite the snow's brightness. A definite disadvantage; it'll be easier for me to be spotted.
I stare into the snow–covered boughs of the great pine trees looming above me. If I could climb, maybe I could sleep there. At least I'd be safe from the bigger tributes who can't shoot a bow or throw a knife. And animals too. If there are any, that is.
I've never been talented at climbing trees. I don't have very good upper body strength. But under these circumstances, I will have to make my muscles work.
I find a decently tall tree with low–hanging limbs that I can grab with a single jump, and manage to get up into the first three branches. I huff slightly, my breath coming out in milky wisps. I look up. Only twenty more to go.
Slowly but surely, I get to the middle of the tree. This will have to do. My muscles are burning, and I'm sweating despite the cold air. My malnourished, numb, frozen arms cannot withstand this kind of pressure. I pull the jacket tighter around me, grateful that I have the wind to my back, and make a small shelter by the trunk. I sit there for a few hours as the sun zips below the horizon behind the clouds.
It gets dark. I look through the pine needles, but can't see anything when the anthem plays. I stand slowly, move a branch aside, and stare into the faces of now–dead kids.
Chrome, male from 1. Kudos to whoever managed to off him.
The girl from 3. I don't remember her name. Started with an 'N'…
Both from 6.
Andra, girl from 7.
The girl from 10, whose name escapes me.
Farro, the girl from 11.
And my heart jumps a little as Rhiannon's face pops up. I'm the only hope for my district. The only hope that my family might be better off, that my friends are able to eat a meal a day.
My eyes fill with tears as I picture Amrose. Her smile. Sitting in front of the TV that barely works, huddled against our parents and Adric.
I collapse against the tree, eyes narrowing. I don't sleep, though. My heartbeat quickens, and I hyperventilate. I want to rip my jacket off, but I can't.
I have to say something. I doubt the Gamemakers will allow the world to hear it, but it's all I can think to do to silence the hammering in the back of my mind.
"Amrose, I'm sorry that you have the misfortune to probably lose me. I never said it enough, but I love you. You're the best sister in the world, and I want you to look away if I die. Adric, stay strong, you're the man now. Make sure Mom and Dad stay in line, all right?"
A small smile touches my face at my little joke. Not even a joke. Just a little mirth mixed into my speech.
"And Mom and Dad, don't let them starve; do anything you can, just don't die. Because then my life would have been lost in vain. Please. I love you all so much, and you'll be with me right to the very end."
Getting this out of my system has given me enough peace of mind that I can sleep. I nibble on some bread, and eat some snow from the branch next to me. My eyes slide shut, and I huddle against the cold and try to drown out the wind.
