As you may have noticed I've found some extra time for writing this week :) I can't promise this pace will continue so enjoy while it lasts :) And as always tell me what ya think!
Underground Bunker
Sleep for me has not been the same since my dad died in the cave-in on the eve of my twelfth birthday. Add to that the fact I've been reaped not once but twice and lived through a war in which I watch my only sister get killed, it not a surprise that my unconscious hours are filled with horrific nightmares; so the fact I slept the night through without a single disturbance can only be contributed utter exhaustion. When I do wake, I do so with a start. It takes me a couple of seconds to place where I am, but once alert, I'm pleasantly surprised to find I'm well-rested. Stretching with a groan, I reach down and kneed my calf. Every muscle of my protest movement, so I lie still, staring up at the lights beaming overhead. After eating last night, I collapsed here, unwilling to get up to turn out the lights, so they are shining happily from the ceiling down at me. My eyes droop and I consider drift back off but my balder protests and urges me to my feet.
I'm greeted with a functional bathroom, even the water in the sink is hot. The shower calls for me to wash off the dust and sweat off from the past few days, but I need to locate some food and ideally some soap for bathing first. I wander down the hall to and back to the storage facility for supplies. Today, with a clearer head, I notice that all the rows of shelves are numbered and that attached to one of the end caps is a tablet glowing with life. "Inventory? Let's hope so or I'll be here all day," I sigh.
A couple of taps later and I have a shelf and bin number where to find some food staples, towels, and toiletries, I just hope they are still useable. The layout is easy to navigate and all the gray bins list the items inside in black paint, it's faded but legible. At the end of each individual shelving unit is a small machine that I quickly surmise is to help bring bins down the floor, which is a good thing as the shelves are at least fifteen feet tall. On the keypad, I type in the bin number I want, and the machine quickly whirls to life, pulling the tote from its spot six feet up and places it on the floor at my feet. "Wow, okay," I mumble, giving the box a quick once over. The lid has a handle on it, much like the main bus switch, I flip on yesterday, just much smaller. Placing a thumb on the lever I give it a push in the direction of the arrow and a hiss escapes as the lid slowly pops open. The boxes must be pressure sealed, that's a positive sign, I hope. The lid slides up and out the way and I'm looking down upon kitchen staples, all intact and looking as new as the day they were placed in this box. It takes no time at all to pull out a canister of each flour and cornmeal, the jar of oil and two tins, one salt, the other pepper. Closing the lid on the remaining items, I turn back to the retrieval machine and push in another sequence of numbers.
A half-hour and 6 bins later I sit perched on a desk chair taking in my pile of booty. Grains, oil, tinned meats and vegetables, tea, powder milk and sugar provide me with enough food for at least a week. Also, I've allocated everything I need for a shower including clean clothing. While retrieving sheets and blankets I stumbled on bins upon bins of clothing for men, women, and children. The variety of sizes confirms my suspicion that this bunker was originally meant for several people or families. The clothes, at least in the bin I opened for myself, are simple, comfortable, and durable.
Leaning back in the chair I untie the end of my braid and run my hands through my hair, working the knots out with my fingers, as I ponder the last week of my life. I was trapped in a fake Victors Village. Down the smallest detail, it was a replica of my home, but it wasn't a home it was a prison and my captor an imposter of the one person I trust most in this world. My mind fixates on Carson's face, then on Peeta's and suddenly tears prick my eyes and a sob catches in my throat. I haven't faced an arena without Peeta before, and while I'm free of the prison and feeling relatively safe at the moment, I realize that I'm still fighting for my freedom. Fighting for my right to go home. A traitorous tear slips down my cheek and I angrily brush it away. Peeta faced the Capitol's torture for months and here I am crying in a warm safe shelter with plenty to eat. I need to get over myself. I need to eat, shower, and figure out what the hell I'm going to do next.
Shelter Bay, the Wilds
Shelter Bay isn't much of a town, but its size didn't seem to deter the very rich who clearly were catered to here. With its fancy storefronts, restaurants, and large homes, most of which are now boarded up, is town is tucked neatly between a crystal clear lake and towering rugged mountains. Unlike the Capitol, the structures here have a more rustic yet opulent feel to them. The entryways are made of natural stone and log; the streets are paved with perfectly fitted cobblestone and the perfectly manicured yards are ringed with black iron-work fences. It's breathtaking and it's also not where Katniss is being kept.
Upon arrival, our team was deposited at a hotel on the lake, as the soldiers, who traveled with us from Seven, immediately dispersed to check every house and public space in town and all outlying areas. They found nothing. They have now rounded up the staff that lives here and interviews are underway in the salons downstairs. Haymitch, Johanna, and I have been sequestered in our suite and denied access to the interviews, a fact that has me climbing the walls.
Stepping out onto the balcony, I look out across the clear lake and watch as the boats moored at a small marina on the far side of the lake bob up and down in the water. I take several deep breaths and try to calm my roiling stomach. Being barred for the information I need to find Katniss has made me feel physically ill.
"It's something else, isn't it?" Johanna asks nodding out at the view. I simply nod. "Still feeling that whole "I won't interfere" thing?" she asks knowingly.
"Wouldn't be here if I didn't agree," I admit.
Leaning against the banister, Johanna joins me in watching the boats for a moment. "Well, we did agree to follow orders of the soldiers," she agrees. "What was the orders exactly?" she ponders aloud.
I turn and look at her profile, I've known Johanna long enough to know when she's up to something. "To stay out of the salon and not to interfere with their interrogations," I say.
She nods slowly, her eyes still on the lake. "Did they mention anything about the balcony that hangs over the salon?" she asks innocently.
I roll my eyes, "No, but what good will that do?" I sigh.
"The AC isn't working in the salon, or so I hear," she smiles. "It's a hot day, I think it might be getting steamy in there."
I squint at her, "You don't say."
"That's what the maintenance guy said when I bumped into him," she grins.
" You "bumped into" a man who is supposed to be getting interviewed?" I ask through a smile.
"They can't talk to everyone at once, and a man stuck in the bowels of this place 10 to 12 hours a day isn't at the top of their list," she shrugs.
"It's those folks, the ones no one sees, that generally know the most." I counter.
She nods in agreement. "Usually. And before you ask, Arnie, my maintenance friend, was just transferred up here a couple of weeks ago, so he doesn't know anything," she says, beating me to my next question. "So, you feelin' like a change of scenery?"
I hold my elbow out to her, "Shall we?" I say in response.
She smirks and loops her arm through mine. "Let go, and be quiet about it, we don't want Nanny Haymitch to catch us."
Haymitch has been awake longer than I have so when we find him prone and snoring on the couch I'm not surprised, but pleased. It makes our escape all the easier.