Chapter Twelve

As the eighth day since the tributes were launched into the arena came to an end, Head Gamemaker Cronus Longfellow was in a meeting with none other than President Snow himself. The two men sat directly opposite each other, just close enough that Cronus was forced to inhale the scent of the rose in the president's lapel. As usual, the rose looked absolutely perfect, its petals pure white, but there was something about it Cronus didn't like, something about the way its perfume threatened to overwhelm anyone who got too close to its wearer. It was almost as if Snow was using it to mask some other, less pleasant aroma, not that Cronus was about to pursue that point for fearing of offending the president. And President Coriolanus Snow was someone you crossed at your peril.

Snow took a sip from the glass of wine in front of him. "The Games are progressing according to plan, I trust."

"They are, sir. Seven tributes died on the opening day and a further five have been eliminated since, which means we've reached the halfway point. Only another eleven to go and you'll be crowning this year's victor."

"Did you say there are currently twelve dead tributes?" Snow's voice was dangerously quiet as he gripped the stem of his wine glass. "That means twelve are still alive," he added without waiting for Cronus to reply. "Too many for this stage in the Games. The people will grow restless if they don't see some action soon and restlessness . . ."

". . . leads to rebellion," Cronus concluded. It was one of Snow's favourite sayings, along with "snow lands on top" and "never trust anyone but yourself", the sayings of a man who, over a period of more than thirty years, had schemed and poisoned his way to the top and was prepared to do whatever it took to make sure he stayed there. Including betraying those closest to him, not that Snow ever allowed himself to truly care about anyone. Even his marriage to his former classmate Livia Cardew had been for the sole purpose of producing an heir; they'd presented themselves and their son, Priam, to the nation as a happy family, but there had never been any real closeness between them. Indeed, when Livia died suddenly two years after he became president, Snow had carried on with the business of running the country as if nothing had happened, only appearing briefly on the balcony of the presidential mansion as his wife's funeral procession passed below.

"Then it must be nipped in the bud," Snow said now. "And, to do that, we - or rather you - must liven things up in the arena."

"Don't worry, sir, we've been preparing something I think the tributes will find . . . shocking. It should be ready some time tomorrow, then we'll see how many are left at the end of the day."

"Just make sure there are fewer left than there are now." Snow took another sip of wine and continued in the same dangerously quiet voice. "The last thing Panem needs is a repeat of the fiasco of two years ago." The Sixty-sixth Games had not gone down well in the Capitol, thanks to an incompetent Head Gamemaker who thought dumping the tributes in a tundra with no means of making fire and leaving them to freeze to death was a good idea. The result had been a Hunger Games with almost no action, just tributes huddled up as they succumbed to the cold. "You would do well to remember Vickers," Snow added, fixing Cronus with a snake-like stare, a look he normally reserved for those who had been brave, or foolish, enough to oppose him.

Cronus needed no-one to elaborate on Snow's last statement. Alexander Vickers, the nephew of another of the president's former classmates, had been the Head Gamemaker at the time of the Sixty-sixth Games and had been personally held responsible for the disaster they had become. So he had been dismissed from the position, shortly before he seemingly vanished off the face of the Earth. Even after two years, no-one knew what had happened to him. Was he languishing in a jail cell somewhere in the Capitol? Had he been turned into an Avox and put to work as a mute slave? Or had Snow arranged for him to be murdered and given orders for the body to be disposed of?

Knowing Snow, any of these was possible. And he'd just hinted that Cronus would suffer the same fate unless those watching the current Hunger Games were given a show. A show which involved killing off a few more tributes.


Synthia looked up at the sky with growing unease. The day had started out fine and sunny, but dark clouds had suddenly descended as if from nowhere, plunging the arena into an ominous twilight. And it had happened far too quickly for it to be a natural shift in the weather, which meant it the Gamemakers must be behind it. They must have something planned, something which involved manipulating the weather within the arena, something which could only mean bad news for herself and the other eleven tributes. But what?

"What's up with the sky?"

The speaker was Monica from District 6. She and Synthia had met up by chance while making their escape from the Cornucopia on the first day and, realising they stood more chance together than either of them did alone, quickly formed an alliance, pledged to fight together, to watch each other's backs. At least until the time came when they would have to either break off their partnership or turn on each other. For now, though, they were a team and, while they had considered what might happen if both of them made it to the latter stages, they knew the odds were against that happening. Especially with five of the Careers still out there.

Synthia turned in the direction of her ally's voice. "I was just wondering the same thing. It shouldn't cloud over for no reason - the Gamemakers must have something planned. Which . . ."

". . . means trouble for us," Monica concluded, seconds before there was a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder, yards from where she and Synthia were. And, as the storm began in earnest, more lightning bolts followed in quick succession, each one striking closer to the two girls. It was, Monica thought as she was sprayed with hot soil blasted into the air by one of the arcs of electricity, as if the bolts were being targetted towards them, directed by some unseen entity with the power of life and death. Which, these being the Hunger Games, they almost certainly were; someone in a control room at the Games Headquarters must have triggered this storm to provide those watching in the Capitol with a little entertainment at the tributes' expense. To say nothing of their friends and families back in the districts. Monica recalled how her sister, Amelia, had always hated storms and would cling to her if there was thunder and lightning about. And now she would . . .

"Come on!" Synthia's words, almost drowned out by the storm, cut through Monica's train of thought. "We've got to get out of here!"

But Synthia's warning came too late. Seconds later, a massive bolt struck directly over the spot where Monica stood, sending 2000 volts straight through her body as her ally looked on in horror. As Monica fell to the ground, the sound of the cannon was drowned out by the storm, but Synthia didn't need to hear it to know what had happened. Nor did she need anyone to tell her she would suffer the same fate if she stuck around here.

She began to run, not stopping to think about Monica, not stopping to think about anything except trying to avoid getting hit by one of those deadly lightning bolts.


Astra and Dyson had been eating a baked potato when the storm broke, a meal which, though neither of them knew it, they wouldn't have received had Astra not impressed the viewers in the Capitol by taking out Randall. The mere fact that a slightly built thirteen-year-old had killed an older and stronger tribute had caused people to re-evaluate Astra's chances, resulting in her sponsor pool refilling over the last two nights. By the beginning of the ninth day, it contained enough money for Piper to purchase food for her tribute, not a full meal - those were already becoming expensive - but a snack. Like the potato, baked in its skin and topped with cheese, which had arrived in the arena, attached to a parachute, just after the sun had risen.

Unable to determine which of them the potato was meant for, the two tributes had split it between them, taking care not to eat it too quickly; doing so after several days living on very little food would only make them ill, which was the last thing they wanted under their current circumstances. So they paced themselves, telling themselves that, if they felt full, they could always save some for later. Cold baked potato, not that you could afford to be fussy over food in the Hunger Games.

It had been Dyson who looked up at the sky and saw the clouds rolling in, followed moments later by jagged bolts of lightning crashing down, each one striking closer to where he and Astra were camped. No way was this storm natural; it had to be the Gamemakers' doing, triggered deliberately from a control room in the Capitol to flush the tributes out. Which meant someone had decided the Games were becoming dull and needed livening up. And watching kids dodge lightning bolts was just the sort of thing that went down well in the Capitol.

Dyson was on his feet in an instant, shouting for Astra to run for it. He might not entirely trust her, not that you could put complete trust in any of your fellow tributes, but he had no wish to see her get struck by lightning any more than he wanted to be hit by one of the deadly bolts. And, being from the district which generated Panem's electricity, he was well aware of the effect of having several thousand volts go through your body. No doubt Synthia, whose district had a similar industry to his, knew too, but he had no time to think about her right now, except as a potential enemy who would try to kill him if they crossed paths. Besides, he didn't even know if she was still alive. He, on the other hand, was alive and, if he wanted to stay that way . . .

He set off at a run, dodging bolts of lightning, knowing his face would be in the sky tonight if he couldn't outdistance the storm. The sky flashed with each bolt, accompanied by a rumble of thunder which drowned out any cannons that might have sounded. He glanced back occasionally to see Astra running behind him, separated from him by several feet. But, even though she was smaller than him and couldn't run as fast, he resisted the urge to help her. A few days ago, he wouldn't have hesitated, even if it meant risking his own life, but more than a week in a Hunger Games arena had changed him and his only thought now was for his own survival. Astra would just have to manage as best she could.

Another crash of lightning, almost directly overhead this time. Dyson was knocked off his feet, went sprawling on the ground, his ears ringing. It took him a moment to realise he was still alive and still had a lightning storm bearing down on him, but when he did he staggered to his feet and glanced round to find himself faced with the most horrific sight he had ever witnessed outside of watching the Hunger Games on television.

Astra was on the ground, her skin covered in burns, her clothes incinerated, leaving her completely naked. As another flash of lightning lit up the scene, Dyson saw that her left leg had been blown off below the knee. And yet she was still alive, somehow; he could see her mouth moving in what remained of her face, blistered lips struggling to form two words. "Help . . . me . . ."

The same words Linus had said after the bird mutt sprayed him with acid. And, as on that occasion, Dyson knew there was only one way he could help her. Telling himself not to think about what he was doing, he drew his machete out of his belt and ran the short distance which separated him from his district partner, kneeling beside her. As he looked at her close up, he saw that her eyes had been seared shut, but she seemed to know he was there and she seemed to sense what he was about to do.

He raised his machete and, with the same swift movement he had used when he put Linus out of his misery, slashed her throat.


Xylon could feel his lungs heaving in his chest, hear his heart pounding in his ears. His legs ached to the point where he wanted to give up and collapse to the ground, but he couldn't stop running; if he did, he would surely find himself on the wrong end of one of the lightning bolts that descended from the heavens as if hurled by a vengeful god. Quite possibly some of his fellow tributes had already been hit, but, with the noise of the storm making it impossible to tell if any cannons had fired, he couldn't be sure. He would have to wait for the death recap tonight - if he was still alive by that point.

For now, he kept running. He couldn't afford to waste time worrying about anyone else, not even his allies, Valerie and Glean from District 9. Valerie and Glean. He and his district partner, Lara, had teamed up with them in the Training Centre after seeing them demonstrate their skill at handling sickles, a skill they'd no doubt picked up working in District 9's vast grain fields, just as learning how to use axes had been part of his and Lara's upbringing. They'd hoped their pack of four might give the Careers a run for their money, but things hadn't worked out that way. Lara had been killed in the bloodbath and, though the rest of the kids from the lumber and grain districts managed to get away, they hadn't seen any other tributes since.

For over a week now, they'd roamed the arena by day and holed up in caves at night. Xylon would have preferred to sleep among the branches of trees, safe from potential killers, but trees were in short supply in the moorland that formed the arena this year and those that were present were not suitable for climbing. Besides, Valerie and Glean were from District 9 which, he knew from what he'd seen on television, was mostly open prairie dominated by acres of cereal crops; they weren't used to life among the trees, not in the way he was. He and pretty much every other citizen of District 7 might have been taught to climb trees as soon as they could walk, but Valerie and Glean had not. So caves it was. Each member of their alliance would take it in turns to keep watch at the entrance while the other two slept, keeping the weapons they'd grabbed at the Cornucopia to hand in case any of the other tributes showed up. If that happened, whoever was on watch would rouse their allies, who would come out of the cave so that all three could make a stand against whoever it was.

At least that was the theory. However, no other tributes had ventured anywhere near the caves where Xylon and his allies spent each night. So the three of them had come up with an alternative plan; they were going to light a campfire, making as much smoke as possible in order to draw in their fellow tributes. When those tributes, hopefully the Careers, investigated the smoke, they would find only a seemingly unattended fire, at which point Xylon, Valerie and Glean, hiding nearby, would ambush them. It was risky and could easily get them all killed, but at least there was a chance that they might be able to take one or more of the kids from Districts 1, 2 and 4 down with them.

It was while they were gathering wood for the fire that the storm began. First dark clouds descended, then jagged lightning bolts more powerful than any they had ever seen started crashing down. Knowing it would be suicidal to stick around, they had abandoned their plans to set an ambush and begun to run, only to become separated in their hurry to get away. Now, Xylon was alone, trying desperately to outrun the lightning, hoping against hope that he would come through the storm alive, giving no thought to anything except his own survival. Lightning bolts crashed all around him, blasting hot soil into the air, as he tried to avoid them. But, on the verge of exhaustion, there was no way he could keep dodging them forever; his only chance was to find somewhere he could shelter from the deadly storm.

There. A cave, up ahead. He tried to put on a final burst of speed in order to reach the cave before the lightning caught up with him, but, before he could do so, a bolt struck directly overhead and his world exploded in a blinding burst of light.


As abruptly as they had appeared, the clouds over the arena dispersed, revealing a bright blue sky. The tributes who had survived the lightning storm peered out from whatever shelter they had found, stunned by the sheer power of the cataclysm which had been unleashed on them. Among them were Dazzle and Fathom, who had been with Garnet scouring the arena for potential victims when the storm broke, forcing the three Careers to abandon the hunt in order to try and save themselves. But while they were trying to dodge the lightning bolts, Garnet had taken a direct hit and been fried to a crisp; neither Dazzle nor Fathom needed to hear the cannon to know they had now both lost their district partners. But what about the rest of the tributes? How many of them had survived the storm? And who, apart from Garnet, had joined the list of the dead?

"Do you think Lupus and Bellona are still alive?" Fathom gave voice to what he and Dazzle were both wondering. They hadn't seen their allies from District 2 since this morning and, with the storm having drowned out any cannons that might have sounded . . .

"No idea," Dazzle replied, shrugging her shoulders. "If they are, we'll have to decide what we want to do about the alliance. There can't be many of us left after all that lightning . . ." She paused, recalling the moment one of the jagged bolts of electricity had struck Garnet, reducing him to a charred corpse, then shook her head to dismiss the memory from her mind. She was a Career and, as such, she wasn't supposed to let the deaths of her fellow tributes affect her, including that of her district partner. She might have known Garnet all her life, but that made no difference to the fact that only one of them could get out of here alive. She had survived the lightning storm; Garnet had not. It was as simple as that.

"Guess we'll find out tonight," said Fathom. He looked up at the sky, which showed no sign that a deadly electrical storm had been raging only moments ago, a storm which had killed Garnet and had almost certainly killed other tributes as well. Trouble was, until the death recap, he and Dazzle would have no way of knowing how many had fallen today. There could still be as many as nine other tributes left, or the field could have been reduced to a handful, including themselves.


Sunset found Dyson sitting under a rocky outcrop, very like the one where he and Astra had set up camp on their first night in the arena. He remembered sitting with her, watching as the faces of the tributes who had died in the bloodbath appeared in the sky, the days spent in her company. Now, however, he was alone; Astra had been struck by lightning and . . .

With a shudder, he recalled how he had cut her throat as she lay on the ground, burned to the point where she was no longer recognisable as the girl whose name Janus had drawn at the reaping. Though he told himself there was nothing else he could have done for her, that she was dying anyway, the memory troubled him even more than the memory of what he'd done to Pleat and Linus. The District 8 tributes were one thing; he'd never spent any time with them before he killed them. Astra, however, had been his ally and, though he'd been wary of her motives since the incident where she'd killed Randall, he hadn't wanted their partnership to end like this. Especially since she was so young . . .

The opening bars of the national anthem distracted him from his thoughts and he looked up to see the Capitol seal hovering over the arena, before being replaced by the face of Garnet from District 1. Another Career down, not that Dyson was in the mood for celebrating when he knew whose face would also appear tonight. And there she was, Astra, looking down at him from the sky. Seconds which felt far longer than they were in reality passed before she faded away and was replaced by Monica from 6, then Xylon from 7, then the seal again, before the anthem ended with its customary flourish and the seal faded from the sky, leaving Dyson with only his thoughts for company.