Chapter Thirty-Seven.
The Anthem.
The Panem anthem plays in the eerie atmosphere for a minute whilst the seal of the Capitol lights up the sky as if floating in space. As I listen to the strain of the anthem, I cannot help but think, it will be harder for Finnick and Peeta. Eight of the twenty-four victors are dead, no doubt at least one of these people where friends with them. The seal of Capitol disappears and the usual darkness of the sky returns before the head shots of the fallen tributes with the musical anthem playing in the background.
However, it turns out to be plenty hard for me as well because the first face to appear in the sky was the man from District 5, the one I took out with my throwing knife at the Cornucopia during the bloodbath. That means that all the tributes in 1 thought 4 are alive – the four Careers, Beetee and Wiress, and, of course, myself and Finnick – The man from District 5 is followed by the female morphling from District 6, Cecelia and Woof from District 8, both members from 9, the woman from 10, and then finally, Seeder from District 11. The Capitol seal is back with a final bit of music and then the sky goes dark except for the moon.
No one speaks, I can't pretend that I knew any of them well but I'm thinking of those three children hanging on to Cecelia when they took her away. Seeder's kindness at me at our first meeting. Even the thought of the glaze-eyed female morphling painting my arms and face with yellow flowers gives me a pang. All dead. Gone.
I don't know how long we might have sat here if it wasn't for the arrival of the silver parachute, which glides down through the foliage to land before us. No one reaches for it.
"Whose is it, do you think?" Willow asks firmly.
"No telling," says Finnick, "Why don't we let Anastasia claim it, since she died today?"
Rolling my eyes, I untie the cord and flattens out the circle of silk. On the parachute sits a small metal object that I can't place. "What is it?" Willow asks. No one knows. We pass it from hand to hand, taking turns examining it. It's a hollow metal tube, tapered slightly at one end. On the other end a small lip curves downward. It's vaguely familiar, a part that could have fallen off a bicycle, a curtain rod or anything, really. Peeta blows on one end to see if it makes a sound, it doesn't. Finnick slid his pinkie into it, testing it out as a weapon, it's useless.
"Can you fish with it?" Willow asks me.
I examine it again but it pains me to shake my head with a grunt, admitting that I'm useless in this situation. I take it and roll it back and forth on my palm. Since we're allies, Haymitch and Mags will be working together. They must have worked together to choose this gift which means its incredibly valuable, life-saving, even. I think back to last year, when I needed water so badly but Michael nor Finnick sent non. Eleven years ago in the 74th Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen experienced a similar situation however like my mentors, Haymitch didn't send any because he knew she could find it if she really wanted. However, as I hold the gift in my hand, I can almost hear Haymitch's growling voice inside all of ours minds, use your brains, if any of you have one.
I wipe the sweat from my eyes and hold the gift out in the moonlight. I move it this way and that, viewing it from every angle possible, covering portions and then revealing them. Trying to make it divulge it's purpose to me. Finally, in frustration, I jam one end into the first, "I give up. Maybe if we hook up with Beetee or Wiress they can figure it out." I growl, stretching out, laying on my front and pressing my hot cheek onto the grass mat, staring at the thing in aggravation. Peeta rubs my shoulders to try and relax me but the feeling of Finnick's hot stares, Peeta retracts. I wonder why this place hasn't cooled off at all now that the sun's gone down. I'm thankful that heat is a factor I have lived with all my life back in District 4 however the heat has never been this intense. I wonder what's going on back home.
Lucas. Michael and Annie. Embry. I think about them watching me from home. I begin to ache for them, for my district, for my water, not the arena's water. Rushing steams and cool breezes that help us to deal with the searing heat in summer. I conjure up such a wind in my mind, letting it freeze my cheeks and numb my fingers.
"A spile!" Willow exclaims, sitting bolt upright.
I pushed myself over to I lay on my back. "A what?" I mumble loosing all memory of the cool breeze washing over my body. Willow removes the thing from the ground and brushes if clean. Cup her hands around the tapered end, concealing it and looked at the lip.
"It's a spile. Sort of like a tap. You put it in a tree and sap comes out," she explains bluntly looking at the sinewy green trunks around her. "Well, from the right sort of tree. Theses aren't sap trees."
"Sap?" Finnick asks, we don't have the right sort of threes by the sea for that.
"To make syrup," says Peeta, "But there must be something else inside the trees."
We're all on our feet at once. Our thirst, the lack of springs, the tree rat's sharp front teeth and wet muzzle. There can only be one thing worth having inside these trees. Finnick goes to hammer the spile into the green bark of a massive tree with a rock but I stop him. "Wait, you might damage it. We need to make a hole first." I say picking out the awl from Willow's belt and burring the spike five centimetres into the tree. As soon as I remove the spile, Willow wedges the tip of the spile into the hole and we all stand back in anticipation. At first nothing happens. Then, a drop of water rolls down the lip and lands in Peeta's palm, he licks if off and holds out his hand for more.
By wiggling and adjusting the spile, we get a thin stream running out. We take hungry turns holding out mouths under the tap, wetting our parched tongues. Finnick empties the tightly woven bowl and holds it beneath the water. We fill the bowl and pass it around, taking deep gulps and, later, luxuriously splashing our faces clean. Like everything here, the water's on the warm side but this is no time to be picky. Nevertheless, this gives me the opportunity to blindly examine the cut in my hairline, it doesn't feel deep enough to panic and it's not particularly long, an inch or so crusted with dry blood. I don't speak out because I know the entire nation is watching and without our thirst to distract us, we're all aware of how exhausted we re and make preparations for the night. Last year, I always tried to have my gear ready in case I had to make a speedy retreat in the night. This year, there is no backpack to prepare, just my weapons which won't be leaving my grasp, anyway. Then I think of the spile and wrestle it from the tree trunk and slip it securely into the vacant pocket left by my missing throwing knife. It's safe.
Finnick offers to take the first watch but Peeta insist he does however when I attempt to cut in and take first watch, they both refuse sharply saying that until I am rested, Peeta and Finnick will be taking watches. I growl with anger but see no reason to fight about it because I feel protected with them. I lie down beside Finnick who lays next to Willow separating us, before he sleeps he makes sure to tell Peeta to wake him the instant he beings to feel tired. The other two find themselves sleeping with ease, however I find myself jarred from sleep a few hours later by what seems to be the rolling of a bell. Bong! Bong! It's not exactly like the one they ring in the Justice Building on New Year's Eve but close enough for me to recognise it. Finnick and Willow sleep through it but Peeta has the same look of attentiveness as I feel. The tolling stops and I move from the nut to sit with Peeta a meter from the hut.
"I counted Twelve." I say.
"Midnight?" Peeta suggests not at all bothered by my company.
Nibbling my lip, I rattle my brain. "Or one for every for every districts."
"Do you think they mean anything?" he asks.
Shrugging, I answer, "No idea."
We wait for further instructions, maybe a message from Claudius Templesmith. An invitation to a feast but the only think of a note appears in the distance, a dazzling bolt of electricity strikes a towering tree and then a lightning story beings. I guess it's an indication of rain, of a water source for those who don't have mentors as smart as Haymitch and Mags.
"Go to sleep, Anastasia. It's my turn to watch, anyway." Peeta says. I hesitate but no one can stay awake for ever. I settle down at the mouth of the hut, one hand firmly grasped around the handle of a knife and I drift into a restless sleep.
The sound of a cannon startles me into consciousness, another victor dead, I don't even allow myself to wonder who it is. There's no point waking a now sleeping Peeta beside me because there is no point alerting them of this. The elusive rain shuts off suddenly, moments after it stops, I see the fog sliding softly in from the direction of the recent downpour.
"It's just a reaction. Cool rain on the steaming ground." Finnick whispers to himself.
As it continues to approach at a steady pace, tendrils reach forwards and then curl like fingers, as if they are pulling the rest behind them. As I watch, I feel the airs on my neck begin to rise. Something is wrong with this fog. The progression of the front line is too uniformed to be natural. And if it's not natural... it's Gamemaker made. A sickeningly sweet odour beings to invade my nostrils whilst Finnick reaches a hand out for the fog.
"No Finnick!" I screech as he jerks backwards, I lung forwards and it takes a few seconds for him to reveal his hand to me whilst I scream for the others to wake up which is the time it takes for Finnick's hand that begins to blister.
A/N: Tra-la-la, now in the original books (and film), a person dies in the fog. Do you think someone will parish? Or will everyone make it out safe? Please review and tell me what you think of this chapter.