Chapter 36: Strong
We hurry into the clearing, the sky still dim with cloud cover. It's hard to tell what time it is, but Miller and his partner aren't even here yet. Logan and I stand on the outskirts of the clearing, panting and searching for our opponents. The brick wall is still standing where the cornucopia used to be. Logan and I move to face the side of the wall so the barrier won't block our view. The launchpads are covered with dirt. There are four small flags placed on skinny poles near each corner of the wall. One of the flags is green, one is gray, one is red, and the other is orange.
They're our state colors, I realize. I open my mouth to tell Logan, but I clamp it shut when Miller appears from the trees across from us. The burly man from Colorado walks beside him, looking a bit haggard, but largely recovered from his injuries.
"It has come to this," says Alanton's voice.
I jump. I didn't even hear the speaker click on. Logan puts a steady hand on my shoulder.
"Though only two of you will survive this encounter - I must say - all four of you have shown immense courage," Alanton says. "Today, two of you will return home to your families and friends. You will return to fame, fortune, and the honor of helping your state. For the two of you who do not return, my hope is that you remain courageous and die with dignity."
I think I might be hyperventilating. My breaths come in ragged gasps, but my body is straight. The mace feels alive in my hand. I am afraid. More afraid than I've ever been. But I won't give up. I will fight with ferocity. I will die with my opponent's blood on my hands.
"Please drop your weapons," says Alanton.
I grip my mace even tighter. My eyes dart wildly to Logan's. He has made no move to drop his bow.
"I will not ask again," Alanton warns. "Drop your weapons. Now."
I still hesitate, but I hear the clunk of Logan's bow falling to the ground. I reluctantly lower my arm and let the mace slide to the ground. I am defenseless. I watch as Miller tosses his sword to the ground. The man from Colorado looks a bit nervous as he lays down his axe.
"Good, good," Alanton says, sounding disappointed that he didn't get to punish us. "As you can see, there are four flags arranged in front of you. Please proceed to the flag depicting your state's color."
Logan slips his hand around mine. We walk briskly to the wall, where our flags stand. I feel numb and cold, gripping Logan for support. Miller and the Colorado man move to their flags. Miller stands directly in front of me at the other end of the wall. I force my eyes to stare in his. I won't let him know I'm afraid.
Logan drops my hand and steps to his flag.
"The person standing across from you is your final opponent," Alanton says. "For five minutes, you will be required to fight without your teammate. The wall will serve as a barrier between you. It will slowly lower into the ground. When the wall has fully lowered, you will know that five minutes has past. At this time, if your partner is still alive, you will be allowed to assist each other. You may retrieve your weapons at any time, so long as you do not interact with your partner in any way."
Alanton's words make my heart race. Five minutes. I have to fight with Miller, alone, for five minutes. I spread my feet apart and grit my teeth. I will make it the hardest five minutes of Miller Hughes' life.
"When the gong sounds, the fighting will begin," Alanton says. It's clear how much he's enjoying this. "The first annual Hunger Games has been a great success, and I thank you for your participation. Congratulations to the winners, and to the losers...it will all be over soon." He chuckles as if he's made a joke.
The speaker shuts off. It seems the time for countdowns has passed.
Miller stares at me with maniacal eyes. His shoulders rise and fall with his breaths, reminding me of a raging bull. I stare right back, letting the adrenaline course through me. As soon as the gong sounds, I will run.
I will run to my mace.
I adjust my stance so Miller will think I plan to charge at him, and I ball my sweaty palms into fists.
Bong, bong, bong.
The buzzer echoes across the arena. Miller springs to action before I do. I whirl around, flinging dirt behind me. I take off, using every ounce of energy to reach my mace. I hear Miller's pursuit. My heart sinks.
I'm not going to make it.
Miller's arms grab me from behind, and he tackles me. My already wounded legs throb as they scrape across the dirt. I squirm to free myself, still focused on reaching the mace. Miller seems to be everywhere at once. He grabs at my hands and legs, while pushing his knee into my back. I flail and buck, keeping him from getting a solid hold. He moves his knee, and I flip over.
Miller is kneeling, a frustrated sneer on his face. I kick out with both legs, aiming for his chest. He dodges the blow and grabs my ankles, locking his arms around them. He yanks my legs, pulling me closer. I try to punch him, but he blocks me easily. He takes one hand away from my legs and grabs my shoulder, shoving me into the dirt.
I jerk my legs free, but Miller ignores them. He growls in aggravation. I continue to squirm, but I make no progress. Miller grabs my shirt and pulls me to a sitting position. I yank my arm back, and I finally land a punch, right in Miller's left eye. He blinks quickly, but shows no other signs of pain. He wraps his arms around my waist and hoists me onto his shoulder like a sack. I punch and kick as he gets to his feet. He grunts when my flailing limbs make contact. He walks toward the gray wall, my protests being largely ignored. I glance over the top of it, spotting Logan on the other side. He and the Colorado man are brawling on the ground. The Colorado man is trying to reach his axe, and Logan is furiously trying to keep him from it.
I continue my struggle to no avail. Eventually, Miller gets tired of my punching and kicking. He throws me down. I writhe in the dirt, gasping for breath. He falls on me again, punching me in the face. He swings back for another punch, but I grab his arm, clawing with my fingernails. He wrenches his arm away. I sit up and grab his hair, feeling clumps of it give way as I yank. Miller yelps and shoves me back to the ground. My head hits hard. Black spots swim in my vision.
I hear a loud grinding sound. Miller hears it too, and pauses his onslaught. The wall is starting to lower.
"Don't worry, Mississippi," Miller spits. "You won't make it five minutes."
He straddles me, sitting on my legs.
"Watch me," I say.
I dodge Miller's next punch and grab his shirt, pulling myself up. He hits me in the side, but I ignore it. I keep my grip on his shirt, pulling it down to expose flesh. Then I sink my teeth into his shoulder.
"AHHH!" Miller yelps. He jerks away, and I taste blood in my mouth.
I use his small moment of surprise to push as hard as I can.
Miller falls backwards and I pull my legs out from under him. He crashes to the ground. I fall on top of him. I know I can't hold him down, so I use my moment of power to knee him squarely in the groin. His breath whooshes out, but he keeps his composure. He pulls me to his chest and rolls over, pinning me to the ground again. I follow the momentum of his roll to keep us moving. We flip again, and I'm on top for a few seconds. We keep the roll going, neither of us willing to be pinned in the dirt.
I wonder vaguely if we will roll for the rest of our five minutes. Then, a painful scream tears through the air.
Logan.
Miller pins me to the ground with a victorious "HA!" I ignore him, my thoughts frozen on Logan's scream. Miller pushes me aside, freeing my legs. I scramble to sit up. The gray wall is lowered more than halfway into the ground. I can see the Colorado man from the waist up, holding his huge axe. His face is swollen and covered in blood, but it's clear from his expression that he's winning the fight. I can't see Logan. He must be on the ground. Maybe even dead already.
My limbs feel heavy. No one is hurting me, but I've never felt such pain in my life. Another scream peals through the air. I breathe a sigh of relief.
It's a battle cry. Logan isn't giving up. I see the surprise on the Colorado man's face before he falls to the ground.
"I should've seen it before," Miller says behind me.
I turn around and my stomach clenches. Miller is holding his sword.
"I didn't want to take on you and Reinhart," He continues, "I figured you guys would be tough to beat, but I guess not." He pulls me to my feet. "He makes you weak."
We stand face to face. Miller's sword looks much larger up close. I back away a few steps. This is not the first time I've been told that my emotions make me weak. I remember Marda saying something very similar on the night before the Games.
Miller swings his sword. I dart out of the way, feeling a small scratch on my arm. The sword comes at me over and over. I dodge all of his attacks, but my shoulder and both of my arms show bloody gashes. I don't know how deep they are, and I don't care. I can still move. I can still fight.
Miller's words keep up a constant echo in my mind.
He makes you weak.
I glance again at the gray wall. Only a tiny wedge still stands above the ground. The five minutes are almost up. Miller's swings take longer each time. He is tiring. I duck under a swipe from the sword and barrel into him. I push as hard as I can, and finally he loses his balance. He falls backwards, still gripping the sword. I grab his arm, pushing it to the ground. I claw, bite, punch, and yell. I will do anything to get him to drop his weapon. For a split second, his grip loosens, and I take my chance.
I push the sword out of his hand and grab it in my own. I scramble to stand up while Miller does the same.
"You're wrong," I say.
Miller has a bloody nose, and tufts of his hair are missing. His clothes are torn and stretched, and he gasps for breath. I feel a surge of confidence that I inflicted this much damage on such a strong opponent.
"What?" Miller says, wiping blood from his face.
"You're wrong about Logan and me," I say. I hold the sword up, ready to attack. "He makes me strong."
I rush toward him. I hold on to the sword with both hands, hoping I'll have enough strength to damage Miller. The sword is heavy, but I hold it straight. Miller's eyes light up with surprise. He doesn't have time to move.
I slam into him. The sword makes contact. I keep pushing. I don't know where I've hit Miller, but I know I've done some damage. He pushes me away. I try not to let go of the sword, but it's lodged too deeply in Miller's body. I stumble backwards but manage to stay on my feet.
The sword has pierced Miller's chest. Blood soaks his shirt and shorts, and drips down onto the dirt. I couldn't have placed the sword any better. Miller falls to his knees, shock plainly written on his face. I turn to the wall. It's fully lowered. The five minutes are over. I look around for Logan, and spot him near his bow. He lays flat on the ground. Blood is everywhere. The Colorado man stands over him with his axe, facing my direction. His face pales when he looks at Miller.
Miller yanks the sword free, and his blood pours out even faster. The sword clatters to the ground and Miller falls forward. Everyone is frozen for a moment. Then the gun fires.
I turn to Logan's opponent, and his axe falters a bit. I hurry in his direction, trying to run, but everything hurts. The colorado man abruptly drops his stance. Logan is too injured to attack, but he raises up and pulls himself across the ground.
Toward my mace.
I want to cry out for him to get to the woods. To save himself, while I fight the man from Colorado. But I can see he won't make it. The closer I get, the more alarmed I am by Logan's injuries. His right leg is crushed. There's blood seeping and bone protruding and I don't know what else. I can't bear to keep looking at it. His body is covered with bruises, cuts, and scrapes.
Rage courses through me. I turn my narrowed eyes to the man from Colorado. He sees me and takes off, heading for the cover of the forest. I hold my course, still running to Logan. His body creeps across the ground, agony in his eyes. Finally, he reaches my mace. His bloody hand flings it in my direction. I bend to catch it.
"End it," Logan says hoarsely.
The Colorado man runs desperately for cover. He's gaining a lot of ground in his relatively uninjured state. I'll have to throw the mace. The distance is greater than any of those stupid dummies during training. I've never made a throw this far. I glance at Logan's bleeding body. If I miss, if I can't kill the man from Colorado, Logan will die. I start running. I need to get as close as I can. I force my legs to move faster, closing the distance between me and my target. Just before the man disappears into the trees, I loose the mace.
I fall to my knees with a grunt. There's no strength left in me. Everything I had went into that throw. I watch as it sails through the air. The Colorado man almost reaches the forest.
The mace lodges in his head with a crunch.
The impact propels him forward a few more feet, but he falls. The gun fires.
And it's over.
I press my hands to the ground. Relief courses through my body, making my limbs feel like jelly. I gasp for air and turn back to Logan.
He isn't moving.
"Logan?" I call. I crawl across the grimy dirt, ignoring the rocks that scrape my skin. Logan's eyes are closed. His face is pale.
"Logan!" I cry. "Wake up!" I pick his head up gently, sliding it onto my lap. He doesn't respond.
"It's over! We won!" I yell. My voice echoes through the silent arena. "Someone do something!"
My hysteria rises, but nothing happens.
I run my dirty fingers through Logan's hair. They are covered in blood. Miller's, Logan's, mine. The sticky red stains Logan's blond tresses, so I stop.
Abruptly, a metal grinding sounds from the center of the arena.
My eyes dart wildly, expecting danger. Logan's bow is close, but I doubt it would be of much use to me. I gently place Logan's head back on the dirt. Slowly, I stand, every muscle in my body screaming for mercy. I make my way to the hole where the gray wall disappeared and bend my head over the side.
Ascending to the surface are six men and women. They wear pristine, white scrubs, and two stretchers are crowded between them. A lift brings them slowly toward me. I spot Dr. Dawson among the group.
"Help!" I yell. "Logan needs help!"
"We're coming, Corenn," Dr. Dawson says calmly, but frustration is plain in his voice. "We had to wait for permission to come to you."
I stomp my feet in aggravation. This is Alanton's doing. He delayed the medical team, knowing how severe Logan's injuries are. I bet this was the plan all along. He surely expected there to be serious injuries in this fight. He never intended for two of us to live. He probably wouldn't have cared if we all died, as long as it was entertaining.
Dr. Dawson shifts impatiently as the lift nears the surface. The rest of the medical staff looks nervous. Their eyes are trained on me, and they glance at each other in alarm. I take a few steps back.
They're afraid of me, I realize. They've seen what I'm capable of, and it scares them. When the platform grinds to a halt, Dr. Dawson runs to Logan. The others hesitate, eyeing me like a predator. I back away and hold up my hands.
"Just help him," I say, "Please."
They move to Logan slowly, never turning their back on me. Dr. Dawson checks Logan's pulse.
"He's alive," the doctor says.
I collapse to my knees. Dr. Dawson barks orders, and the white clad team snaps into action. They pull tubes, cloths, and instruments from bags strapped to the stretchers. They bend over Logan, blocking him from my view. Two assistants stand aside, warily looking at me.
I want to yell at them. To tell them to stop staring like idiots and help the others. But I know what they're doing. They're supposed to be helping me.
I inch toward them, trying to look unthreatening. I'm sure I still look like a crazed madwoman, covered in blood, torn clothing, dirt from head to toe.
"I don't need anything," I tell them.
"Let them help you, Corenn," Dr. Dawson says without looking up. I prepare a retort, but when I look down, Dr. Dawson is bent over Logan's leg. It doesn't look much like a leg anymore.
"No," I say. It sounds less stern than I meant it. The two assistants don't push, and Dr. Dawson is preoccupied. I pace, stirring up dust with my dragging feet. I want to sit, but I'm afraid I might black out. I know I can't do anything to help Logan, but I can't rest until I know he's okay.
After a few minutes of pacing, my composure is hanging by a thread. Dr. Dawson decides to move Logan to a stretcher.
The medical team lines up around him and counts to three, hoisting him from the ground. Logan wakes up, screaming and fighting. The group nearly drops him, and I fall into hysteria. I crouch down, curling my knees to my chest and covering my ears. Logan's screams pierce through me, and I knot my hands in my hair.
"Your turn, Corenn," Dr. Dawson says. He pats the empty stretcher.
I shakily rise to my feet. "I'll walk."
One of the assistants jams a needle into Logan's arm, calming him quickly
Dr. Dawson sighs. "Suit yourself." He motions to the others. "We need to hurry."
The white-clad team moves with precision, each person knowing their job and doing it. They move to their entry platform, and I follow, trying to keep up. My legs just aren't functioning like they're supposed to. I reach the platform as it starts to descend, panting with exhaustion.
The crew hovers over Logan, installing all sorts of tubes and gadgets in different places. Everybody looks worried. I want to ask questions, but I'm afraid to distract anyone. I stand awkwardly pressed into a corner, giving the medical team as much space as possible. My shoulder screams with pain, but I don't want to look at it. One spot on my thigh burns with every movement. And I'm cold. So, so cold. I don't know if it's the temperature of the chamber, or if my blood loss is becoming severe. It doesn't matter. Either way, I'm not going to interrupt the doctors.
A shrill beeping makes me jump. The team bustles frantically, and Dr. Dawson barks orders. Everyone scrambles to obey. I cower in the corner, trying not to watch, but I can't tear my eyes away. I catch glimpses of each face as they dart around Logan's limp form. One man drips with sweat. An older woman looks like she might cry. As a whole, every one of them looks very, very afraid.
My body starts shaking again. My knees threaten to buckle and my teeth chatter audibly. I cover my eyes with a bony hand and try to block out the chaos. Soon, the beeping becomes more regular and things slow down again. I still don't uncover my eyes.
The lift grinds to a halt. I pry my hands away to see we've arrived at a large doorway. The medical team pushes Logan's stretcher hurriedly through the opening, forgetting about me. I stumble along behind them, numbly noting that some part of my body drips blood on the white-tiled floor. We enter a well-lit hallway. I force my legs to continue while I blink and squint. I have to stay with Logan.
Logan is wheeled through a massive set of double doors. I quicken my pace to slip through before they close. We reach a large room filled with medical equipment. Dr. Dawson attaches things to Logan while the rest of the staff grabs various items from drawers and cabinets. I stand in the entryway, staring and bleeding. No one looks at me.
Dr. Dawson murmurs urgently to the rest of the team while they work. I catch snippets like "vitals" and "tissue damage" but I don't know what any of it means. The room is spinning a bit, ruining my attempts to listen. I grab a nearby countertop to keep me upright.
Soon, the group is in motion again. They bustle to the doorway with Logan in tow. I step aside while they rush past. Dr. Dawson says something to me, but I don't hear it. My feet are on auto-pilot. They will follow Logan wherever he goes. We traverse a myriad of hallways.
When we reach our destination, two guards part to let Logan's stretcher through a doorway. I hobble behind, ignoring the guards.
One of them grabs my arm lightly.
"I'm sorry, but you can't go in," he says.
I pull my arm away and stare at the guard. His eyes widen as he takes in my appearance.
"I have to," I say. My voice sounds far away.
The guards exchange a glance. They look nervous, like I might claw their eyes out if they don't listen to me.
"Look," I say, searching for words, "I won't...touch anything. I just...just..."
Dr. Dawson appears in the doorway. He surveys me from head to toe.
"You need medical attention," he says.
I try to shake my head, but the world blurs.
"No," I muster. "Not till Logan's safe."
Dr. Dawson sighs. "He's being prepped for surgery. There's nothing you can do right now."
"I know," I clutch my head and shut my eyes. "I just..." I can't think of the right words. "Please," I say.
Dr. Dawson chews his lip for a moment.
"Let her in," he says.
The guards step aside, and I stumble through the door, taking the doctor's offered arm. This room is small, but the many doors leading elsewhere are open, giving the illusion of a bigger space. Logan lies on a clean stretcher. The bloody one from the arena sits forgotten in the middle of the floor. One woman attends Logan, holding a mask over his face and watching a machine.
"He's stable right now," Dr. Dawson says. "I need to scrub up, but I want to get you sedated and in an examination room. You've lost a lot of blood. I don't know how you're still standing."
He grabs a flimsy chair and sits it next to Logan's stretcher. Dr. Dawson nods to the woman beside Logan, and she leaves. I plop into the chair, wincing as my body protests. I take Logan's blood covered hand in my own. He feels cold, lifeless. And I feel helpless. There's nothing to do now but wait. Logan may live or die, but I can't protect him anymore. He'll have to fight this battle alone.
Dr. Dawson rustles through a drawer behind me. I don't bother to find out what he's doing. I can't take my eyes from Logan's face. This may be the last time we're alive and together. I take in every detail of his swollen face, his blood-matted hair, and his shattered leg. But this isn't the Logan I want to remember. I picture the strong, handsome man in the gray suit at the opening ceremony. I picture his glistening skin as he glided through the water. I picture his smile when I said something ridiculous. That's the Logan I will treasure. I'll remember him like he was- brave and beautiful.
He would like that.
I say nothing when Dr. Dawson approaches with a needle. He puts a tentative hand on my shoulder.
"Are you ready?" He asks.
I nod, but I don't look away from Logan. A slight prick on my forearm barely registers, but my eyes droop in seconds. The room dims around me, and I rest my head on Logan's stretcher, my hand still holding his. I look at Dr. Dawson, watching me sympathetically from above.
"Save him," I whisper.
And I close my eyes.
I'm in the meadow again. It's bright and warm. Kade is chasing butterflies, and he claps jovially when he notices me.
"You came back!" He says.
"Of course," I reply, though I don't remember where I've been.
I look around, searching for Thomas. The picnic basket sits on a blanket in the grass. Instead of Thomas, a blond man sits with his back to me, pulling food from the basket.
"Logan!" I cry. I rush to him, tackling him in my excitement. "You're okay!"
Miraculously, he doesn't drop his food.
"Never better," Logan says.
Sprawled beneath me on the ground, he looks healthy and perfect, just like he should be. I glance at my own body. I wear a clean sundress. It fits the curves of my body, curves I shouldn't have. I have no bruises, no wounds, no scars.
"This isn't real," I say, and shift away from Logan.
Logan shrugs. "Who cares? We're together, and that's what matters."
I manage a small smile.
For a long time we sit and watch Kade. We talk about meaningless things and shove food in our mouths. The picnic basket never empties, and the sun never sets. It is a perfect day.
All too soon, Logan takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.
"You have to go now," He says.
"I don't want to," I reply.
Logan laughs. "That's not how this works."
I look at the ground and scrub my toe in the dirt. "What if you're not there when I wake up?"
Logan sweeps me into a tight hug. "I'll still be here, waiting for you."
I hug him back, longing to stay, wishing for more time to prepare for what lies ahead.
Logan pulls away. I turn to Kade.
"I'll see you soon Mommy," he says.
I grin. "I can't wait."
Logan walks me to the edge of the lush meadow. The trees ahead look dark and menacing. Logan plants a kiss on my forehead.
"It's time to be strong again," he says. "Can you do that for me?"
I nod reluctantly.
Logan smiles. He steps away, returning to the picnic and to Kade.
I take a deep breath and walk away.