When I wake, I have a brief, delicious feeling of happiness that is somehow connect with Peeta. Happiness, of course, is a complete absurdity at this point, since at the rate things are going, I'll be dead in day. And that's the best case scenario, if I'm able to eliminate the rest of the field, including myself, and Peeta gets crowned victor of the Quarter Quell. Still, the sensations is so sweet I cling to it, if only for a few moments. Before the gritty sand, the hot sun, and my itching skin demand my return to reality.
Everyone's already up and watching the descent of the parachute to the beach. I join them for another deliver of bread. It's identical to the one we received last night. Twenty-four rolls from District 3. That gives us thirty-three in all. We each take five, leaving eight in reserve. No one says it, but eight will divide up perfectly after the next death. Somehow, in the light of day, joking about who will be around to eat the rolls has lost its humor.
How long can we keep this alliance? I don't think anyone expected the number of tributes to drop so quickly. What if I am wrong about the others protecting Peeta? If things were simply coincidental, or it's been a strategy to win our trust to make us east prey, or I don't understand what's actually going on here? Wait, there is no ifs about that. I don't have a clue what's going on here. And if I don't, it's time for Peeta and me to clear out.
I sit next to Peeta on the sand to eat my rolls. For some reason, I find it difficult to look at him. I'm sure it has nothing to do with all the kissing we did last night, I've gotten use to kissing him for both the Capitol and myself. I'm not sure if it felt any different for him. It could quite possible be the fact that our time together is growing short, and we're working at such cross-purposes on who should survive these Games.
After we eat, I take his hand and tug him toward the water. "Come on, I'll teach you how to swim." I need to get him away from the others where we can discuss breaking away. It will be tricky, because when they realize that we're breaking the alliance, we will be instant targets.
If I was really teaching him how to swim, I would have made him take of his belt since it keeps him afloat, but what does it matter now? So I just teach him the basic stroke and let him practice in waist-high water. At first, I see Johanna keeping a close eye on us, but she eventually loses interest and goes to look at the map. Finnick is weaving a new net out of vines and Beetee is plays with his wire. I know the time has come.
While Peeta has been swimming, I discovered something. My remaining scabs have begun to peel off. By gently rubbing a handful of sand up and down my arm, I clean off the rest of the scales, revealing fresh new skin underneath. I stop Peeta's practice on the pretext of showing him how to rid himself of the itchy scabs, and as we scrub ourselves I bring up our escape.
"The pool is down to eight. I think it's time we took off," I say under my breath, although I doubt the other victors can hear me.
Peeta nods, and I can see him considering our position. Weighing if the odds would be in our favor. "Tell you what," he says. "Let's stick around until Brutus and Enobaria are dead. I think Beetee is trying to put together some kind of trap for them now. Then, I promise, we'll go."
I'm not entirely convinced. But if we leave now, we'll have two groups of adversaries to contend with. Maybe three, who knows what Chaff is up to? Plus the clock to contend with. And then there's Beetee to think of. Johanna only brought him for me, and if we leave she will surely kill him. Then I remember. I can't protect Beetee, too. There can only be one victor and it has to be Peeta. I must accept this. I must make decisions based on his survival.
"All right," I say. "We stay until the careers are dead. But that's the end of if it." I turn to wave to Finnick. "Hey, Finnick, come on in! We figured out a way to make you pretty again!"
The three of us scour all the scabs from our bodies, helping the others' backs, and come out as the same pink as the sky. We apply another round of medicine because the skin seems too delicate for sunlight, but it doesn't look half as bad on smooth skin and will be good camouflage in the jungle.
Beetee calls us over, and it turns out during all those hours fiddling with the wire, he has indeed come up with a plan. "I think we all agree that our next job is killing Brutus and Enobaria," he says mildly. "I doubt they'll attack us out in the open again, now they're so outnumbered. We could track them down, and kill them, I suppose, but that's dangerous and exhausting work."
"Do you think they've figure out about the clock?" I ask.
"If they haven't, they'll figure it soon enough. Perhaps not as specific as we have. But they must know that some zones are wired for attack and that they're reoccurring in a circular fashion. Also, the fact that our last fight was cut off by Gamemaker intervention will not go unnoticed by them. We know it was an attempt to disorient us, but they must be asking themselves why it was done, and this, too, may lead them to the realization that the arena's a clock," says Beetee. "So I think our best bet is to set our own trap."
"Wait, let me get Johanna up for this," says Finnick. "She'll be rabid if she missed something this important."
"Or not," I mutter, since she's always pretty much rabid, but I don't stop him because I'd be angry myself if I was exclude from a plan at this point.
When she joins us, Beetee shoos all back a bit so he has room to work in the sand. He swiftly draws a circle and divides it into twelve wedges. It's the arena, not rendered in Peeta's precious strokes but in rough lines of a man whose mind is occupied by other, far more complex things. "If you were Brutus and Enobaria, knowing what you know about the jungle, where would you feel safest?" Beetee asks. There is nothing patronizing in his voice, and yet I can't help thinking he reminds me of a school teacher about to ease his children into a lesson. Perhaps it's an age difference, or simply that Beetee is probably a million times smarter than the rest of us.
"Where we are now. On the beach," says Peeta. "It's the safest place."
"So why aren't they on the beach?" Beetee asks.
"Because we're here," says Johanna impatiently.
"Exactly. We're here, claiming the beach. Now where would you go?" says Beetee.
I think about the deadly jungle, the occupied beach. "I'd hide at the edge of the jungle. So I could escape if an attack came. And so I could spy on us."
"Also to eat," Finnick says. "The jungle's full of strange creatures and plants. But by watching us, I'd know that the seafood's safe."
Beetee smiles at us as if we exceed his expectation. "Yes, good. You do see. Now here's what I propose: a twelve o'clock strike. What happens at exactly noon and midnight?"
"The lightning bolt hits the tree." I said.
"Yes. So what I'm suggestion is after the bolt hits at noon, but before it hits at midnight, we run my wire from the tree all the way down to the saltwater, which is, of course, highly conductive. When the bolt strikes, the electricity will travel down the wire and into not only the wire but the water surrounding the beach, which will still be damp from the ten o'clock wave. Anyone in contact with those surfaces will be electrocuted," says Beetee.
There was a long pause will we digest Beetee's plan. It seems a bit fantastical to me, impossible even. But why? I've set thousands of snares. Isn't this just a larger snare with a more scientific component? Could it work? How can we even question it, we tributes trained to gather fish and lumber and coal? What do we know about harvesting the power of the sky?
Peeta takes a stab at it. "Will the wire really be able to conduct that much power, Beetee? It looks so fragile, like it would just burn up."
"Oh, it will. But not until the current has passed through it. It will act something like a fuse, in fact. Except the electricity will travel along it," says Beetee.
"How do you know?" Johanna asks, clearly not convinced.
"Because I invented it," says Beetee, as if slightly surprised. "It's not wire in usual sense. Nor is that lightning natural lightning nor the tree a real tree. You know trees better than any of us, Johanna. That tree would be destroyed by now, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," she say glumly.
"Don't worry about the wire—it will do just what I say," Beetee assures us.
"And where will we be when this happens?" Finnick asks.
"Far enough up in the jungle to be safe," Beetee replies.
"The Careers will be safe, too, unless they are in the vicinity of the water," I point out too.
"That's right," Beetee says.
"But all the seafood will be cooked," says Peeta.
"Probably more than cooked," says Beetee. "We will most likely be eliminating that as a source of food for good. But you found other edible things in the jungle, right, Katniss?"
"Yes. Nuts and rats," I say.
"Well, then. I don't see that as a problem," says Beetee. "But as allies this will require all of our efforts, the decision whether or not to attempt it is up to the four of you."
We are like school children. Completely unable to dispute his theory with anything but the elementary concerns. Most of which don't even have anything to do with his actual plan. I look at the others' disconcerted faces. "Why not?" I say. "If it fails, there's no harm done. If it works, there's a decent chance we'll kill them. And even if we don't and just kill the seafood, Brutus and Enobaria lose that as a source of food, too."
"I say we try it, too," says Peeta." Katniss is right."
Finnick looks at Johanna and raises his eyebrows. He will not go forward without her. "All right," she says finally. "It's better than hunting them down in the jungle, anyway. And I doubt they'll figure out the plan because we can barely understand it ourselves."
Beetee wants to inspect the lightning tree before he has to rig it. Judging by the sun, it's about nine in the morning. We have to leave our beach soon, anyway. So we break camp, walk over to the beach that borders the lightning section, and head into the jungle. Beetee's still too weak to hike up the slope on his own, so Finnick and Peeta take turns carrying him. I let Johanna lead because it's a pretty straight shot up to the tree, and I figure she can't get us too lost. Besides, I can do a lot more damage with my quiver of arrows than she can with two axes, so I'm the best one to bring up the rear.
The dense, muggy air weighs on me. There's been no break from it since the Games started. I wish Haymitch would stop sending that District 3 bread and get us more of that District 4 stuff, because I sweated out buckets in the last two days, and even though I had the fish, I'm craving salt. A piece of ice would be another good idea. Or a cold drink of water. I'm grateful for the fluid from the trees, but it's the same temperature as the seawater and the air and the other tributes and me. We're all just one big, warm stew.
As we near the tree, Finnick suggest that I take the lead.
"Katniss can hear the force fields," he explains to Beetee, and Johanna.
"Hear it?" Beetee asks.
"With the ear that the Capitol reconstructed," I say. Guess who I'm not fooling with that story? Beetee. Because surely he remembers that he showed me how to spot a force field, and it's probably impossible to hear a force field anyway. But, for whatever reason, he doesn't question my claim.
"Then by all means, let Katniss go first," he says, pausing a moment to wipe the stream off his glasses. "Force fields are nothing to play around with."
The lightning tree is unmistakable as it towers so high above the others. I find a bunch of nuts and make everybody wait while I move slowly up the slope, tossing the nuts ahead of me. But I see the force field almost immediately, even before the nut hits it, because it's only fifteen yards away. My eyes, which are sweeping the greenery before me, catch sight of the rippled square high and up to my right. I throw a nut directly in front of me and hear it sizzle in confirmation.
"Just stay below the lightning tree," I tell the others.
We divide up duties. Finnick guards Beetee will he examines the tree, Johanna taps for water, Peeta gathers nuts, and I hunt nearby. The tree rats don't seem to have any fear of humans, so I take three down easily. The sound of the ten o'clock wave reminds me I should get back, and I return to the others and clean my kill. Then I draw a line in the dirt a few feet from the force field as a reminder to keep back, and Peeta and I settle down to roast nuts and sear cubes of rat.
Beetee is still messing around with the tree, doing I don't know what, taking measurements and such. At one point he snaps off a sliver of bark, joins us, and throws it against the force field. It bounces back and lands on the ground, glowing. In a few moments it returns to its original color. "Well, that explains a lot," says Beetee. I look at Peeta and can't help biting my lip to keep myself from laughing since it explains absolutely nothing to anybody except Beetee.
About this time we hear the sounds of clicking rising the sector adjacent to us. That means it's eleven o'clock. It's far louder in the jungle than it was on the beach last night. We listen intently.
"It's not mechanical," says Beetee decidedly.
"I'd guess insects," I say. "Maybe beetles."
"Something with pincers," adds Finnick.
The sound swells, as if alerted by our quiet words to the proximity of living flesh. Whatever is making that clicking noise, I bet it could strip us to the bone in seconds.
"We should get out of here anyway," says Johanna. "There's less than an hour until the lightning starts."
We don't go that far though. Only to the identical tree in the blood-rain section. We have a picnic of sorts, squatting on the ground, eating our jungle food, waiting for the bolt that signals noon. At Beetee request, I climb up into the canopy as the clicking begins to fade out. When the lightning strikes, it's dazzling, even from here, even in the bright sunlight. It completely encompasses the distant tree, making it glow a hot blue-white and causing the surrounding air to be charged with electricity. I swing down to report my findings to Beetee, who seems satisfied even if I'm not too terribly scientific.
We take a circuitous route back to the ten o'clock beach. The sand is smooth and damp, swept clean by the wave. Beetee essentially gives us the afternoon off while he works on the wire. Since it's his weapon and the rest of us have to defer knowledge so entirely, there's the odd feeling of being let out of school early. At first we take turns having naps in the shadowy edge of the jungle, but by late afternoon, everybody is awake and restless. We decide, since this to might be our last chance for seafood, to make a sort of feast of it. Under Finnick's guidance we spear fish and catch shellfish, even dive for oysters. I like the last part the best, not because I have an appetite for oysters. I've only had them once, in the Capitol, and I couldn't get out around the sliminess. But it's lovely, deep down under the water, like being in a different world. The water's very clear, and the schools of bright-hued fish and strange sea flowers decorate the sand floor.
Johanna keeps watch while Finnick, Peeta, and I clean and layout the seafood. Peeta just pried open an oyster when I hear him give a laugh. "Hey, look at this!" He holds up a perfect, glistening pearl about the size of a pea. Peeta rinses the pearl off in the water and hands it to me. "For you." I hold it out in my palm, and examine its iridescent surface in the sunlight. Yes, I will keep it. For the few remaining hours of my life I will keep it close. This last gift from Peeta. The only one I can really accept. Maybe it will give me strength in my final moments.
"Thanks," I say closing my fist around it. Peeta just nods.
Just as we're sitting down to eat, a parachute appears bearing two supplements to our meal. A pot of spicy red sauce and yet another round of rolls from District 3. Finnick, of course, immediately counts them. "Twenty-four again," he says.
Thirty-two rolls, then. So we each take five, leaving seven, which will never divide equally. It's bread for only one.
The salty fish flesh, the succulent shellfish. Even the oysters seem tasty, vastly improved by the sauce. We gorge ourselves until no one can hold another bite, and even then we have left overs. They won't keep, though, so we toss the remaining food into the water so the Careers won't get it when we leave. No one bothers about the shells. The waves should clear those away.
There is nothing to do but wait. Peeta and I sit at the edge of the water, hand in hand, wordless. We said the words that were on our hearts, so there is nothing else to say.
I have the pearl, though, secure in a parachute with the spile and medicine at my waist. I hope it makes it back to District 12.
Surely, my mom and Prim will know to return it to Peeta before they bury my body.
