Chapter Eleven
Astra and Dyson spent the whole of the next day in the cave, recovering from the effects of the mosquito bites. The antidote which had been delivered to them had stopped them from succumbing to the poison contained in the bites, but neither of them wanted to risk moving on until they were sure they were completely cured. Of course, if the Gamemakers decided to do something to flush them out, they would have no choice, but the day passed without incident and the tributes from District 5 remained safe in their rocky shelter.
But they knew they couldn't stay there, out of harm's way, forever. Sooner or later, they would have to leave and that would mean they risked coming into contact with the other tributes who were currently alive. And, having been knocked out by the drugs in the syringes, they had no way of knowing how many that was. The Careers were a definite threat, even with their numbers reduced by at least one following Salacia's death, but the rest were unknown quantities. Some would simply be trying to stay alive, but Astra and Dyson knew enough about the Hunger Games to know there were always a few tributes from outside the Career districts who were just as prepared to kill as the tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4. As Pleat had been. Dyson recalled how she had come at him during the bloodbath, how he had tackled her to the ground and wrestled her machete out of her hand before using it to slash her throat. The same machete which he now kept tucked in his belt, though he had not used it to kill anyone since he'd had to put Linus out of his misery.
It was an unsettling feeling all the same, knowing he had killed two other teenagers and might have to kill again before he was through here. He might even have to kill Astra, though he hoped it wouldn't come to that, partly because she had saved both their lives with the antidote, but mostly because she was so young, just thirteen years old. If she had to die, and since no-one under the age of fourteen had ever won the Games she probably would, he did not want to be the cause of her death. But, if the alternative was allowing her to be killed by the Careers . . .
"Dyson?" Astra's voice cut through his somewhat melancholy train of thought.
He turned to look at her. "Yes?"
"Do you think . . ." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Do you think we'll ever see home again?"
"I don't know." There was nothing else Dyson could say. He knew they would return to District 5 one day, but the odds were still against either of them returning alive. "I really don't know."
At sunset, the national anthem began to play and the Capitol seal appeared in the sky. No faces followed, not that Astra and Dyson had expected to see any; they hadn't heard the cannon all day and knew that meant the death toll was unchanged since yesterday. Yesterday. That was when Salacia had died, but who else had fallen since the Games began?
Dyson began counting off the dead tributes on his fingers. Axle, Lara, Pleat, Mallow, Husk, Stoke and Cormac had been eliminated on day one, Digit and Linus on day two. He'd been too out of it to watch the death recap on the third day, but he remembered the cannon firing, so he knew someone had died that day. But who? Part of him wanted it to be a Career, but something told him that wasn't the case, that it was one of the tributes from the other five - he discounted his own district since he knew he and Astra were both alive - non-Career districts that had still been in the running at that point. Not that there was much chance of him finding out who that had been, unless he managed to win the Games, in which case he would find out when he watched the recap before he received the victor's crown.
But, since it was more likely that he would be dead by then, he dismissed the thought and turned his attention to a more immediate problem. "How much food do we have?"
Astra opened her backpack and rifled through the contents in the fading light. "I'm down to my last strip of jerky," she told him. "And my water bottle's almost empty. What about you?"
Checking his own pack, Dyson discovered that he still had two crackers and his water was, like Astra's, almost finished. "I'm nearly out too." There was nothing else for it, he realised. Tomorrow, he and Astra would have to leave their shelter and try their luck at living off the land again. Astra had lost the mess tin she had been using for gathering berries in the rush to escape from the mosquito mutts, but he still had his twine and he still hoped to use it to set snares.
Of course, leaving the safety of the cave meant they would be running the gauntlet of their fellow tributes, not to mention risking another mutt attack. The mosquitoes had been bad enough, as had the bird which had sprayed acid at Linus, but there was no telling how many biological horrors the Gamemakers were prepared to unleash, or what form those horrors might take. But what other choice was there?
None, apart from staying put and hoping their sponsors sent them some food. However, the antidote must have been expensive and, since two doses had been sent into the arena, the odds of them receiving any more gifts were slim. Which meant they would have to take their chances, unless they wanted to join the list of tributes who had starved to death over the years.
The Hunger Games were not called the Hunger Games for nothing.
"Sun's coming up," Astra said, peering out of the cave.
Dyson picked up his pack and checked his machete was tucked into his belt, telling himself he was simply taking his weapon along for self-defence, that he was not going to attack first if they came across any of the other tributes. Which wasn't likely this early in the morning, but it never paid to take chances in the arena; taking chances was one of the things that could get you killed. There could be as many as eleven tributes out there, up to five of whom were the remaining members of the Career pack. Eleven potential killers, twelve if he included Astra, though neither of the District 5 tributes wanted to think about the possibility that their alliance might have to end with them turning on each other. But it was something they would have to face if they both made it to the latter stages, especially if they were the last tributes left standing, not that such a situation was likely to arise.
For now, though, they were a team and they were going to stay a team until fate dictated otherwise. So they set out together on their foraging expedition, Astra in search of berries like the ones she had been gathering when they were attacked by the mosquito mutts, Dyson with the intent of using his twine to set more snares. Both tributes hoped this attempt to live off the land would be more successful than their first; the only other way they could obtain food was by stealing from the Careers' stash and they both knew how dangerous that could be. The Careers would have rigged traps to keep the other tributes from getting at their supplies, not to mention that raiding their camp meant you risked tangling with the best fighters in the arena.
Astra was the first to spot the berry bushes clustered on the slope, offering the hope of sustenance. She pointed them out to Dyson, who hurried over to see for himself. The berries were a different variety than the ones Astra had been gathering before, but were they an edible variety? Both tributes remembered being shown these berries at the Training Centre, but was it to show them an example of something that was safe to eat, or to warn them that the berries were deadly poisonous and would kill anyone who tried to consume them?
"Should we try them?" Astra asked, looking from the berries to Dyson, then back again. She could tell from the expression on his face that he too was wrestling with the dilemma of whether to take a chance with the berries and risk getting poisoned or move on and hope they found some they knew were edible elsewhere. Perhaps even try to find the berries they had found on their previous foraging expedition. If only she could remember where that was . . .
"It's that or we starve to death," Dyson replied, reaching towards the nearest bush and plucking one of the berries. "Unless you fancy taking your chances with the Careers' supplies," he added, knowing there was no way he was going to risk going anywhere near the place where the tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4 had set up camp, even if he knew where it was. Salacia was dead, but there could still be as many as five Careers in the arena and the last thing he wanted to do was provoke them by stealing their stuff. He'd seen what happened to tributes who tried that in previous Games. So, taking a deep breath, he popped the berry into his mouth . . .
. . . and immediately spat it out as an overwhelmingly bitter taste flooded his tongue. As he gulped down water from his rapidly diminishing supply, he recalled how the edible plants instructor had warned that anything which tasted bad was probably poisonous and should be avoided in future. So much for these berries being a source of food; he and Astra would have to move on and hope the next berry bushes they found contained berries they could eat. Not to mention that he still wanted to try his hand at making snares with his twine.
First, however, he had a more immediate problem. His desperation to rid himself of the taste of the berry had caused him to use up the last of his water, meaning his bottle was now completely empty. As he demonstrated to Astra by turning the bottle upside down with its cap removed to show her that there wasn't even a drop left in it.
"I've still got water," Astra said, as Dyson replaced his water bottle in his pack. "If you like, we can share it."
But Dyson shook his head. "You'll need that water for yourself," he told her. "I can always get more from one of the ponds." He was grateful that she was willing to share her water with him, but these were the Hunger Games and only one of them could get out of the arena alive. Looking out for your allies was all very well, but you couldn't do so forever, not if you wanted to win. Sooner or later, you had to put your own survival first and that meant calling time on any alliances you might have formed. It could even mean having to kill your former allies, but he and Astra were a long way from that scenario, or at least he hoped they were. But, with no way of knowing how many other tributes were still out there, he couldn't be sure the Games wouldn't come down to himself and his partner.
What should he do if that happened? He had no wish to kill a girl who wasn't much older than Tia; in fact, he had no wish to kill again at all. But he would have no choice if he wanted to get out of the arena alive. All he could do was hope that, if he reached the final two, the tribute he had to try and kill would be someone, anyone, other than Astra.
For now, though, he chose to focus on the situation at hand. He needed water and the only place he could obtain it was from the ponds which dotted the arena. With that in mind, he told Astra to come on and the two of them moved off in search of a pond.
It was mid-morning when Astra and Dyson came across a pond, by which time the last of the food they had obtained at the Cornucopia was gone, the two tributes having split Astra's strip of beef jerky and Dyson's two crackers between them. Which made the search for food more urgent, not least because, being from the wealthiest of the non-Career districts, they were not used to going hungry in the way kids from the poorer districts were. With this in mind, Dyson decided that, as soon as he had refilled his water bottle, he was going to try making more snares, hopefully without being forced to abandon them because of a mutt attack this time. Neither he nor Astra had tasted fresh meat since landing in the arena; a bit of roast rabbit, or something along those lines, would be like a feast to them right now. If he could manage to catch it.
In the meantime, he approached the water's edge, removed the cap from his bottle and dipped the bottle into the water. Once the bottle was full, he added an iodine tablet, replaced the cap and sat back to wait for the water to purify . . . Suddenly, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, a movement he knew wasn't right for Astra. Which meant it could only be one of the other tributes, but were they potential ally or foe? Seconds later, he received his answer as a noose was looped around his neck from behind and began to tighten.
Dyson struggled to pull the noose off his neck, but his assailant's only response was to push him to the ground and sit astride him, preventing him from fighting back. For the second time since the Games began, his life was in serious danger. Someone was actively trying to kill him; he could hear them breathing heavily in his ear. Would that be the last sound he heard? Already, he was struggling for air, choking as his would-be murderer increased the pressure on his neck. Were his family watching him die right now? Was Paula? Would someone return the crescent moon pendant she had given him? Would she . . .?
Suddenly, someone coughed behind him and he felt something warm and wet spray against the back of his neck. The noose slackened, as something heavy fell on top of him and the cannon boomed out across the arena. For a moment, he thought he was dead, that it was his own cannon he'd heard, but it then occurred to him that the cannon must have been for someone else, for the tribute who'd been trying to strangle him. Removing the noose from his neck, he crawled out from under the body and staggered to his feet to find himself looking down at Randall from District 10, dead, his lifeless fingers clutching a length of rope, a dagger buried up to its hilt in the back of his neck. A dagger which Dyson had last seen in Astra's possession.
Astra herself was running towards the two boys. Drawing level with them, she bent down and pulled her dagger out of Randall's neck as Dyson looked at her questioningly. "Did you . . .?" Dyson nodded towards the corpse of the District 10 boy. It must have been her; it was her dagger and there were no other tributes nearby, certainly none who would have killed Randall to save his life. But how had she done it? How had a slightly built thirteen-year-old female armed with only a dagger managed to take out a sixteen-year-old male, especially one whose upbringing on the livestock farms of District 10 meant he was already proficient at killing?
"I threw it," Astra replied, holding up her dagger. "Like I did in my private session."
In a control room in the Capitol, someone switched cameras so that the viewers who had, moments before, been watching the drama unfolding by the pond found themselves watching an aerial view of the arena. This was standard practice; what the tributes did in their private sessions was not supposed to become common knowledge. So, the moment Astra mentioned that she'd done knife-throwing in her session, the feed had to be cut, though it would be switched back when the hovercraft moved in to retrieve Randall's body.
"Thanks," Dyson said as Astra knelt by the pond to wash Randall's blood off her dagger. "You saved my life." He was genuinely grateful - after all, it would have been him lying dead on the ground if it hadn't been for her - but he was only too aware of the position her actions had put him in. The fact that she had saved him would make it even harder for him to kill her if it came down to the two of them. Maybe he should think about breaking off their alliance, especially since he had no way of knowing how many other tributes were left in the arena. Better that than the alternative.
But not right now. Having Astra around gave him a sense of connection to District 5 that even the pendant Paula had given him couldn't provide. He might not have known her before the reaping, which was just as well considering they were caught up in a deadly game which only one player could survive, but she was probably the last person from home he would ever see. And, though he'd constantly reminded himself over the last few days not to get attached to her, he'd grown used to her company. If nothing else, he wanted to have that company for a short while longer.
"Come on," he said, picking up his water bottle from where he'd dropped it during his struggle with Randall. "We'd better get out of here; they'll be wanting to collect the body."
First, though, they had something to attend to, namely the large pack which Randall wore on his back. It might contain some choice items, but those items would be removed from the arena along with Randall's body unless they were claimed by another tribute. With this in mind, Dyson knelt beside Randall and eased the pack off his shoulders, unzipping it and rifling through its contents. Sleeping bag. Water bottle. Two packets of nuts, one of which was still unopened. Box of matches. Packet of vegetable soup. Saucepan with folding handle. Half a loaf of bread. First aid kit. Iodine tablets. Not bad - Randall had been carrying enough food to last him at least another couple of days and the sleeping bag and saucepan would be useful too.
Between them, Astra and Dyson divided up the contents of Randall's pack. Astra took the sleeping bag, a packet of nuts and the bread, also swapping her nearly empty water bottle for Randall's full one, while Dyson took the other packet of nuts, the soup and the saucepan. They left the matches, first aid kit and iodine tablets since they had those items already. Then, having sorted out what they were going to take, they withdrew from the scene and watched as a hovercraft appeared as if out of thin air, directly over Randall. The claw dipped down and lifted the body of the District 10 boy off the ground and into the hovercraft, which vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.
And, with that, half the tributes in the Sixty-eighth Hunger Games had been eliminated.
Sunset found Astra and Dyson cooking soup over a small campfire, using the saucepan Dyson had taken from Randall's pack. The savoury smells stimulated appetites already sharp from having eaten nothing but a cracker and half a strip of beef jerky all day and, as he stirred the soup with a stick, Dyson found himself growing impatient for it to be done. Apart from anything else, it would be the first hot meal he and Astra had eaten since arriving in the arena.
Once the soup was ready, the two tributes, having no spoons, tore chunks off Randall's loaf of bread, now Astra's loaf of bread, and used them to mop up the soup from the saucepan. While they were eating, the anthem began to play and the seal appeared over the arena, followed by Randall's picture, which hovered above their heads before fading away. As darkness descended, Dyson found himself thinking about what Astra had done. But for her throwing her dagger at Randall's neck, it would have been his face that had just appeared in the sky; instead, he was alive and Randall was on his way back to District 10 in a wooden box. He hadn't thought Astra had it in her to kill anyone, but it seemed she did. The question was, why had she done it? Especially when neither of them knew how many, or how few, tributes remained in the arena. By eliminating Randall, Astra could have brought herself and Dyson one step closer to the point where they would be forced to try and kill each other.
Suddenly, a disturbing thought occurred to Dyson. What if Astra was planning to knife him in the neck? She was small and slight, but it didn't take much strength to throw a dagger and, if you hit the target in the right place, you could do a lot of damage. As she had proved when she killed Randall. Maybe he should take her out now, before she could do the same to him.
No, he couldn't do that, especially after she had twice saved his life. Even if she'd only done so because she wanted to be the one who killed him; he would sooner die himself. He would just have to hope someone, or something, else eliminated her for him. In the meantime, he must be careful around her and never turn his back on her for a second.
She was not his friend, only his ally. And, when it came to the Hunger Games, there was a limit to how far your allies could be trusted.
