A Song for Snakes and Rats
Day 5 of the Games
Male Tribute from District One, Chime Chaminade
I only have a spearhead. I tell myself that over and over as I sprint through the forest, as I pass leaves and branches, scurrying underneath them like some sort of a rat.
I hear the boy from District Seven behind me breaking through the trees. He's loud. And it might be what keeps me alive. I can hide, I tell myself.
Be the coward, the voice says. Keep running, keep avoiding the fight. And what will you win? Praise and fortune? Maybe riches. That's all. No respect. No integrity. Luster and the others won't even look me in the eyes, if I win. They'll deem me a roach and coward and rat that lived by pure luck.
A canon sounds. I'm falling, face slamming into the dirt, pain crawling over my face. Then I'm scooping myself up and pushing myself back through the brush. My heart leaps, thinking for a moment, that's in mine, that the boy through the axe. As I run, I feel my body, checking for blood. Nothing.
Seven is closer now. I can hear his footsteps. I won't be able to outrun him. Not this time. Fear bubbles up inside me, but then I push it down, telling myself that I've trained. That I'm capable. I'm a Career.
The anger comes and I'm telling myself to breathe, telling myself to exhale, inhale, exhale. I think of Blakely telling me not to be stupid the night before the Games. That I don't have to go in, that I can let someone else volunteer. She never said it, but I don't believe she thought I'd come back. Maybe she was right, I think.
And when I'm stopping, I'm gripping the spearhead. But maybe I can proof her wrong.
"Come and get me!" I yell. "I'm right here!"
The axe comes and if it wasn't for my sense to crouch after screaming that, I would be dead. An axe buried in my chest. I turn to face where the axe was thrown and the boy from Seven comes full sprint. He stops when he sees me. Takes in the spearhead.
"Let's give them a show," I say. I try to force bravado, but everyone whose watching knows I'm not brave. But who cares. Rats can be just as dangerous as snakes. They have teeth after fall.
Seven pulls a knife from his belt.
"You're going to pay for what you did to Blair."
"The boy?" I ask. The kid comes to mind. Him falling. The others screaming. I'm running, knowing he wasn't the target I meant to kill. Knowing I was trying to kill Eight. "Tell him hi."
Seven steps forward. Then I'm leaping, slashing out with the spearhead. Seven dodges, stepping back. He swings with his fist, but I'm ducking. Aligned with his gut, I'm stabbing, hoping to dig the blade into his intestines. But he's too fast, sliding out of dodge. I scream, pushing forward.
A crashing comes from the left of us. More tributes, of course. I swing out, desperate, determined to gut him. And then I'll run, then I'll leave the other tributes to deal with a wounded District Seven.
But I must not have enough time. Because as I'm slashing out, hoping to mark him good, they're closer. Their voices more distinct.
"Proteus!" I hear his district parter. It's the rest of his alliance. The ones who killed Avanelle and Nascha. A sudden fear of them washes over me. The Career Killers my mind says, taking on a new name for them.
I swing out again, but it's distracted. It's sloppy. The blade never reaches him. Panicking, I kick out, but Proteus slashes me, cutting my leg. I'm met with pain. My footing wobbles. I swing out. Again, faster, this time. It hits Seven. He screams before stumbling back.
The other two are there, blocking me from escape.
I turn to find them. The girl from Seven and the boy from Eight. Panicking eats at me, piece by piece, and my hands are shaking, the blade waving back and forth.
"Rahni!" Proteus says. She sets the boy down. Then I'm facing the pair from District Seven. The girl holds a club.
I itch closer to the brush, wondering if I run if I can escape.
"On three," Proteus says. He glances at Rahni.
"Three!" She screams.
And they're both coming for me. I dodge the club, swinging out with my spearhead. Rahni screams, but instead I'm met with warmth.
I'm greeted with shivering pain. I swing out again, hoping to catch the boy. But only a deeper pain is there. More warmth, too, and I'm shuffling backwards.
I look down, taking in the dark blood, taking in the fear. I suddenly don't feel angry. Don't feel afraid. I just see my parents. Them shaking heads at my desire for more money, more glory, more recognition. Their comments for me to just be grateful. My mother saying I can be happy with a simple life. My father asking me not to volunteer for the Games. For a moment, I regret not saying goodbye.
Then my knees are on the ground. I look around at the faces. I smirk.
"How's it feel to be Careers?" I ask them. The boy frowns. District Eight holds his hand. I see the blood pouring from the shirt. Then my eyes are shifting over to the girl. She holds the club. Readies it.
"We're not Careers," she says.
I laugh. "Of course, not." More warmth floods me. "You're Career killers." I swallow down the pain, the fear, the thoughts of dying at the hands of this girl.
Then the club is coming. I exhale, breathing out, before all is dark.
Female Tribute from District Seven, Rahni Vohra
Chime's cannon sounds. But it isn't louder than the words. How's it feel to be Careers?
Denim half grunts, half growls as he fidgets with the shirt. I walk back over to him. "Keep pressure on it."
"I am," he says.
"Are you okay?" Proteus asks. His eyes glance down at the place where Chime nearly gutted me. I feel the blood running down my stomach. He got me right above the ribs. I'll take care of it when we get bak to the Cornucopia.
"Did he kill Zenna?" Denim asks. He looks to Proteus.
"No," Proteus answers.
"What happened?" Denim prods.
"Later," I say. "We need to move. Now." I glance around. "His canon might attract others."
"Who?" Denim says. "District Two?"
"She isn't dead," I say. I only wish I would have hit her harder, directly in the temple, like I did Chime.
"And that's why we need to move," I say. "She could be anywhere." I point to Chime. "And she won't like it that we've killed another Career." Career Killers, the words come, giving me chills, and I have to shake them away. I have to tell myself that it was necessary.
We move out. Proteus helps Denim to his feet. I lead, hands shaking. I try not to think about Yorik's face. Eyes wide, mouth open. I try not to think about Sesame—headless, body stiff. I don't want to think about them, Alice, Blair, Zenna. All of them dying, one by one. Even the Careers. Avanelle with an axe in her chest. Chime with a dent in his forehead.
"Tassia," Proteus says as we make it to the Cornucopia.
"She's here," I say, confused.
"She came back," he says.
Tassia moves slowly, hands held up, palms facing towards us.
"Can we trust her?" I ask.
Proteus stops next to me. "I think so."
"You think or you know?" I ask.
"I guess we'll find out," He says. He approaches Tassia.
"Is everyone okay?" she asks. She rushes towards us after noticing Denim's bloody hand. "I have a first aid kit," she adds. She drops her pack and pulls out the kit. Denim sits down next to her and Tassia starts addressing the wound. "We'll need to stop the bleeding," she says. "Can we caurtarize it?"
I look back at her. Then I look to Proteus. "Whatever you think, do it." I'm suddenly aware that I'm the leader. With Yorik dead, I'm the one calling the shots, the one who has to make sure that Rowena is killed so that the rest of us have a chance of going home. But then I'm also thinking about Denim, about how saving him now only makes killing him later harder. A part of me says to go ahead and take him out. Take out the wounded. Turn on the group. End this alliance. We could take Tassia and Denim out now. Lowering the numbers.
Just like Careers, the words come loud. No, I say back.
"Huh?" Proteus says. "You say something?"
I look over at Tassia. "Why didn't she help you?"
"She's not a fighter," Proteus says.
"So she's a coward," I say.
He doesn't say anything. Just watches as Tassia unwraps the bandages. "This is going to hurt," she says. She takes out a knife. "I need fire," she says.
"No," Proteus says. He looks over at the Cornucopia. "It'll awake the vines."
"Not if we're far enough out," she says.
"What vines?" I ask. "The ones on the Cornucopia." I glance over at the horn, taking in the thick, thorny vines. "What happened?"
"They killed Zenna," Proteus says.
"We can light a fire further away," Tassia says. "Out of reach."
"What about Rowena?" Denim asks. "What if she sees it?"
"Let her come," I say. "We'll be ready." How's it feel to be Careers? The words of Chime come again, replaying over and over, until I'm having to refocus my mind elsewhere. Back to Tassia and Denim.
"We only have one Career left," I say.
"And then what?" Tassia asks. I didn't even know she was listening. Should've known.
"We take out the others," Denim says.
"Like Careers," Proteus says. He pales a little.
"No," I say quickly. "Not like Careers. We won't make them suffer."
"We're still hunting them down," Proteus says.
"Do you want to go home?" I ask. I pull him closer. We can't think like that. We can't keep using the word hunting. We can't be like them. No, we won't be like them. We won't kill them for sport. It'll be necessity. It'll be only to get one of us back home. To get me back home. "If we don't kill them, they'll kill us."
"I know," he says.
"Do you?" I ask.
"I do," he says. He pulls away from me. "Let's move over there, near the trees. We can light a fire there."
They move away from me, leaving me alone. I watch them as they walk, wondering when they'll be memories I watch on television. Will I be able to sit back, taking it all in? Tassia bleeding out, gasping for air. Proteus dead by sword or knife. Denim's ghostly pale and dark round eyes. Will I be able to watch all my fallen allies on live television and keep it together?
Of course, you will, the voices says. You're a Career, after all.
Male Tribute from District Six, Errol Acosta
We move through the brush, scanning the trees. The world swirls and the bile rises up my throat, soaking my tongue. I swallow it down, determined to keep the liquid behind my teeth. It tastes bitter. It takes like metal. Like leather in some ways.
But I keep it down as Tressa looks back, telling me to keep up without actually saying the words. The little Pilot and the Plane, I think. It's almost comical now.
"There's something up ahead," Tressa says.
We walk faster, the world spinning more intensely. I feel unsteady. My vision darkens and sweat sticks to my face.
"It looks like seeds," Tressa says. She holds them in her hand, passing them from palm to palm. "I think I've seen these before."
"They might be poison," I say. I wipe at the sweat on my brow. The arena feels hotter. Sweat soaks my shirt and pants. I take off the jacket, throwing it to the ground.
"No," Tressa says. She hands the seeds over to me. "They're eatable." I look at her. Her skin looks paler. Her hair all curls. "Well, at least I think we can eat them." She shoves some in her mouth, chewing.
I wait, counting the seconds, watching birds fly by like trains. It doesn't make sense, but they seem faster than the trains back home, zooming right over branches in seconds. I smile, thinking about District Six. It's stupid, but I actually miss the sound of the trains. I miss the noise. The rumbling of engines constantly.
"Here," she says. "They're fine. Eat." I eat the seeds. And as I chew them, tasting the tart saltiness, I sit. I eat more and more and more, shoveling down the food. The sun seems to fade, darkening. I feel the withdrawals lessoning as my hunger subsides.
"Something's wrong with the seeds," Tressa says. She goes to stand, but giggles. I go to crawl over to her, but the dirt feels like water, loosening in my grip.
"Don't eat them," Tressa continues. Then there's darkness. Then there's just a river of chills washing over me.
And when I awake again, it's night. Tressa stares at me. She smiles when we make eye contact. I realize I'm not sweating. I realize I don't have a throbbing headache or the need to throw up anymore. Did the seeds do that? I wonder. Did they take away the withdrawals? Sometimes, food helps. But it never worked that miraculously.
"What was that?" I ask. But already my mind is wanting more. My fingers search for the seeds laying on the ground.
"I don't know," she says. "Maybe a hallucinogen." She moves over closer to me. "But we can't eat anymore. Not with only nine of us left."
"Agreed," I say, but I'm feeling the seeds on my fingers. I'm scooping them up, stuffing them in pockets. I try to seem secretive, but there's no secret. If she's watching, Tressa knows what I did. And I don't care.
The seal appears and it's only the face of the boy from District One. His smirk seems less frightening now. That his picture is in the sky. His body in a wooden box.
"Another Career down," Tressa says.
"Good," I say.
Tressa goes to stand up, leaves crunching underneath her feet. "We should probably keep moving."
"Agreed," I say.
As I stand, I shove more seeds in my mouth, chewing them, swallowing down the high, embracing the escape. I feel greedy for already wanting another mouthful by the time I've finished the first. But I tell myself to ration them, to not let the high get too intense.
"Errol," Tressa says. "You there?"
"Yes," I say, but already the creature sounds are fading. Tressa's voice feels more whisper. I'm seeing my brother smiling. My father is there without bullet holes. There are no peacekeepers in this memory of him. It's addictive. The dopamine that rushes through me at the sight of my family. My mother is there, laughing, completely unaware that her son is stealing morphling. She doesn't seem to be grieving. Doesn't know her husband is dead.
"Errol," she says again. But I'm not listening. I just see them. My family. My little sister running towards me. She's gotten so big and since when does she run to see me. Since when is anyone excited that I've made it another day. I shovel in more seeds, desperate to see the pictures clearer.
"You need to stand up," Tressa says. I feel her hands wrapping around my arm.
But I'm already drifting, crashing back into the elusive darkness.
Female Tribute from District Two, Rowena Austel
Chime is dead, leaving me the last Career. I move through the darkness, ready, for whatever threat I face. I'm brave, I tell myself. I'm an Austel. We don't die without a fight, I tell myself. But truthfully, I don't know anyone who has died. No one in my family has ever participated in the Games.
And right now, I'm just hoping I survive this.
I grip the bloody blades, not brave enough to count them, not brave enough to let them go. There could be more muttations, with the gamemakers really out to get the Careers this year. And come to think of it, I thought we were their favorites.
With one left, it's hardly favoritism. The last Career, I think. My body warns me to stop moving, to actually sit down and rest. But again, if I'm honest, I'm afraid of seeing them. Avanelle's blonde hair dipped in blood. Nile's intensities curling out of his muscled abdominals. Nascha's broken neck, curved and dented. The memories are always there now, causally creeping up to remind me.
Every time I blink I see something. Nascha screaming. Yorik with a spear in his chest. There are times even when I see the boy from Eight's fingers flying. They reach out to grab me.
What have I become? I wonder. But what were you before? I ask myself. Nothing, I want to say. Only someone who loved the Games, who trained, who socialize, who was all consumed with this. I look around, taking in the stars. Why does it all feel tainted now? Why does this life I've thought gold nothing but dirt and trees and blood?
A cool breeze blows through the trees, tossing back my hair. It gives me a break from the heat. It softly dries the sweat sticking to my neck and nose and cheeks. Briefly, I wonder what my parents are thinking, if my mother is sipping coffee or if they've brought out the white liquor. Certainly, they've moved on to the hard stuff. There's no telling how much money they have betted on me. They're little warrior. They're little champion.
I think back to my goodbyes. No goodbyes, not really. Only early victory speeches. For a moment, I think about how only the walls and furniture will ever hear those words. I think about how desperately I wanted just a hug or a kiss or for my parents to shed tears. But at the time, I didn't know to ask for those things. I carried on with the show. It was a game. It was an idol. I worshiped it.
And now, I'm just hoping to see them again.
Shimmering birds or insects flutter up above me. If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't see the shadow, the figure moving.
She's quick, but I'm quicker.
I throw the blade and she screams. Her body lurches forward before slamming to the dirt. And when I'm running, ready to just end this. She's gone, crawling into the brush. I search for her, desperate, loosing it.
"Why don't you just die!" I scream. "Why can't this be easy?" I realize how entitled I sound. I realize how terrified I seem. But none of that matters. Not after I see the trial of blood.
And there she is—the girl from District Eleven—crawling on her elbows. She doesn't try to fight me. A surprise, I think.
"I'll make this quick," I say. And at the last second, as I'm positioning over her, she's striking out, nearly slicing me through the chest.
And then she's lunging into me. I embrace myself for impact. Our bodies collide. She yanks my hair. I go to claw at her face. Desperate to get another blade, I headbutt her. A sound pops in my cheek. Pain engulfs me. I feel like I'm drowning in it, dizzy.
But I don't stop. I've been weak too long. I grab her hair, slamming her face into mine again. More pain. More popping. The world seems darker. I see her figure sliding, stumbling backwards. I fiddle for my knife, taking it from my pocket. Then I'm throwing, aiming it for her heart, and hearing only a canon.
She falls. And I say that it's fine, that only killing will get me home, I wonder if I'll see her now. If her face will join the rest when I blink my eyes.
A/N: We're down to the Final Eight: Rowena, Tressa, Errol, Rahni, Proteus, Denim, Tassia, and Viridian
Questions / Interactions:
Guess the right number for your tribute and they get a gift. It's 1-8 this chapter.
Were you surprised that any of these tributes made it this far? Honestly, I'm not. Some of them are snakes, some of them rats. . .All dangerous, mind you.
Thoughts on the overall chapter?
Thoughts on predicted victor?
Whose your favorite tribute left?
Deaths are based on realism, plot development, and if I struggled to capture the voice of your tribute.
10th. Male Tribute from District One, Chime Chaminade. Teddy, I feel like Chime was so much more on form. I know many people didn't like him, but I did. I liked that he wasn't a fighter, but a runner. I've always wanted to explore a Career who wasn't as brave as they expected to be in the arena. I think sometimes fear rules us unexpectedly. The last POV of his was one of my favorites to write. Thank you for submitting an unconventional career to my story.
9th. Female Tribute from District Eleven, Dasenia Bartlet. Matt, I really liked Dasenia. Specifically, how she was relatable, with trying to be a warrior, but still afraid. I think she was one of my tributes who I did well at humanizing. She was a force to reckon with. And I don't think people expected her to go this early, but this is where her story ended for me sadly. Thank you for submitting a song bird to my story.