Day 1: Cornucopia
I stand frozen in front of the metal box while my head spins so fast with thoughts that I almost feel dizzy. A hidden arena. I wonder what is hiding underneath my feet. I drill the toe of my shoes into the sand, but there I encounter only more grains instead of metal that would fit an expansion of the Cornucopia. How the hell am I supposed to get through the bottleneck that forms the entrance to the actual arena? I can't imagine that the detail of the box was hidden from the other tributes. Maybe to some, but not to all. I look around with trepidation. Dead bodies are already piling up in front of the Cornucopia, other tributes are running off, out into the desert. And I stand there, rooted to the spot, essentially presenting myself als bait for the career tributes as soon as they run out of victims in front of the Cornucopia.
I take a few steps backwards, then start to move away from the shiny metal structure as well. Behind a small dune, however, I spread out the blanket and lie down on it so that I can keep an eye on the Cornucopia. It doesn't take long for the career tributes to circle it. They are alone, the first fight is over. Then the bang of the first cannon shakes the arena with a delay, then there's more and I count ten dead tributes. A high number. Almost half in the first few minutes, one by my hand. But I don't have much time to think about it, because an unintelligible shout rings out. The girl from District 4, Riva, points excitedly at the Cornucopia and a discussion breaks out. Moments later, they build a staircase up to the Cornucopia out of supply boxes. Saylor climbs in, burns his hand as I did, but then disappears into the huge opening, cursing. In the following moment the whole construction seems to shake, then I hear another hoot and one career tribute after another disappears and doesn't reappear. They have discovered the entrance to the real arena.
The sun is burning so hot on the back of my head that I would love to jump up and follow them. However, if I were them, my plan would be to watch the entrance in the Cornucopia and stab anyone who gets too close, so I stay where I am for now. Until the thirst becomes too great. Groaning, I scramble to my feet and pick up the bag. I discover in it a bottle of disinfectant, several strips of dried meat and a pack of dried fruit, plus a sleeping bag. All quite useful, but nothing to drink. I rummage through the bag again and find a chunky piece of hard plastic at the very bottom. Surprised, I pull it out. It's slightly larger than my palm and rectangular. It has a small opening at the top that can be twisted open with a ring, and next to it is a small white button. I press it. Nothing happens. Astonished, I turn the cuboid in my hands, shake it for a test, but it doesn't become any more meaningful.
What I notice, however, is how well the blanket I'm sitting on has been protecting me from the blazing hot sand all along. Even when I touch it with my bare hand, it doesn't feel too warm. Interesting. I repack my supplies, leave the blanket, and continue to stare at the cornucopia. The sun has already wandered a good distance across the bright blue sky, burning my forehead and cheeks, when a figure approaches the Cornucopia from the side opposite me. Immediately I sit up straighter. It is a scrawny girl, though I cannot assign her to any district. She is alone.
Standing in front of the Cornucopia, she looks around, letting her eyes roam the desert. I duck my head and she overlooks me, though I must be the only disturbance in the picture of endless sand. Sighing, I rate her chances pretty low, but continue to watch her as she examines the steps of crates and supplies the career tributes have built. First she grabs a backpack of food, then she weighs some weapons in her hand. Only after a few minutes does she recognize the stairs, climb them carefully, and disappear into the cornucopia. I hold my breath as I hear a soft clang of metal – presumably she has let the hatch inside fall shut behind her. My pulse shoots up as I wait to see if a cannon blast is about to sound, which would prove that the tributes from 1, 2 and 4 are lurking inside. But nothing happens. It remains silent and I stare at the Cornucopia with increasingly tired eyes. Now and then I look around, but the desert remains empty.
Then a second small figure darts to the Cornucopia and disappears in it, too. Again no cannon.
Since I can hardly see through the shimmering air and the heat and my thirst are driving me crazy, I decide that it's my turn. The coast seems to be clear. Determined, I stand up, fold up the blanket and shove it in the back of my belt for extra protection. I hang the bag around my neck, holding one of my knives tightly. I walk to the Cornucopia as fast as the hot, unsteady ground will allow. With a last look at the desert as well as a grin at a spot where I suspect a camera, I climb the steps. It's even stuffier in the Cornucopia than outside, and I can feel the soles of my feet getting warm. A bead of sweat rolls down my face, drips down through the palpably thick air, and evaporates onto the floor with a hiss. By now the sun is in such a position that the Cornucopia is in the shade, though this year the starting point of the Games is illuminated by a large incandescent lamp that strikes me as richly out of place. But it doesn't matter, at least I it helps me see everything around me properly. I fight my way to the back end of the metal structure.
The hatch in the floor is round, almost a meter in diameter. The handle is made of wood, so it's not as hot as the rest of the cornucopia. I grab and twist it, swing the lid open, and look down into the hole. Look down at a metal corridor, brightly lit by cold tubes of light. No one is there to welcome me. Indecisive, I take a few steps around, trying to see as far into the underground arena as possible. Everything is still empty, so I step into the hole in the floor and climb down the ladder rungs let into the wall.
Downstairs, the temperature is so much more pleasant that I almost sigh in relief. But no, this is the arena, these are the real Games and the times of uncontrolled emotional outbursts are over.
Under the hatch, a corridor splits in three directions. I turn around myself, but all the corridors look the same, equally tinny, equally long, equally extinct. I look for the slightest stirrings in the reflections, but I can detect no trace of the other tributes. What I do perceive, however, are hollow sounds, the echoes of steps taken far away. As a test, I myself make a small hop to the side and immediately a sound is heard that is probably amplified several hundred meters away. So I take off my shoes, tie them to my belt, and turn toward the middle aisle with steps muffled by socks.
I don't get two hundred meters before the aisle splits at right angles into two directions. This time I decide to take the left aisle. The further I walk through the corridors, the more I forget my actual goal. Am I following the other tributes? Or am I trying to put as much space as possible between them and me? My new goal is water. The time in the desert and my hurrying around in the increasingly branching tunnel system have made my mouth dry out.
And then I see it. A sink, shiny silver and set into the wall, inviting.
I rush to the faucet and am about to put my face under it when I hear a scream.
Instantly I stop and get into a defensive stance, knees slightly bent, weapon raised.
The scream came from the left, the direction I would have moved after drinking.
My heart begins to beat faster. I wonder what happened? Who was screaming? Are the career tributes on someone's trail? But I hear no other sounds, just that one voice. And no cannon. Whatever happened, the victim is one of the two tributes who entered the Cornucopia just before me, and whatever caused the scream is still out there.
Cautiously, I take a few steps down the hallway. I have to turn two corners before I can see what's going on. Just a few feet away from me, the scrawny girl from earlier is leaning against the wall, and I can see another sink across from her. The girl has her hands clasped around her neck, she is trembling and her face is wet, covered in tears. I look at her in wonder, recognizing reddish discolorations around her mouth and on her chin. Before I can develop pity or learn the cause of her injury, I already raise my still bloodstained knife as if automatically.
Then she sees me and fear brushes her gaze. But her reflexes are good enough to duck as I hurl my weapon at her. Whimpering, she dodges, but instead of grabbing my knife from the ground, she runs at the same moment as I do, sprints and disappears around the next corner.
Silently cursing, I bend down for my weapon. I was too slow. Too slow! After all those years of practice! Now this girl, who I am now sure is from District 10, may have run off, but what if such inattention happens to me in the presence of the career tributes? I really can't expect Saylor and his cronies to run from me now.
As I pick up my dagger from the ground, I notice a small puddle. I follow the trail with my eyes to the sink, then the sight of the crying girl jumps back into my head. The red marks around her lips. The grip around what was obviously an injury.
I step up to the sink and carefully turn the faucet. The water shoots out steaming and I almost scald my hand. Startled, I jump backwards. The water stays in the basin for a bit, but instead of cooling down, it only forms a bubbling pond. I get down on my knees to look under the sink for a switch, a knob, of some sort, something meant for temperature control, but I find nothing. The water continues to shoot boiling hot from the wall and although I'm just incredibly glad that the scream kept me from burning my own face and esophagus just a few minutes ago, every drop only makes my thirst seem greater. But so it means waiting – at some point the water has to cool down. I reach into my pocket and pull out the only container I have to fill a little water: The unfamiliar plastic cuboid. Slowly, I unscrew the opening at the top and let a little hot water flow in. All too soon, it shoots back out at me, because despite its size, there doesn't seem to be much room inside the container. Annoyed, I turn the lid back on and press the button next to the opening out of reflex. This time it's much harder to push down than it was in the desert, so I pause.
Where the plastic was just warm against my fingers, the cuboid suddenly changes its temperature. Starting from the white button, a pleasant coldness creeps up to my fingertips. Then the button jumps out at me again of its own accord. I stare at the thing in my hands, then unscrew the lid in a flash to check on my water. When I pull the ring off, no steam is hitting me. Surprised, I tilt the jar and a little water bubbles out. I hold a finger under it – it's pleasantly cool. And I realize how precious the bulky thing in my hand actually is.
I lift the hybrid of ice pack and hip flask to my mouth and drink greedily. Then I fill it right up again, cool the boiling water with the push of a button, and drink again to the last drop. I dump another load of cold water over the slight burns that the heel of my hand has suffered from the Cornucopia.
And as if that weren't enough knowledge for one day, another thought occurs to me at the sight of the small container: If the Gamemakers want the tributes to get drinking water only via small thermal packs, then presumably the arena under the cornucopia is also kept at its pleasant temperature with such packs. After all, it's no secret that the arenas of the Hunger Games often follow a scheme – and here, heat in all possible forms seems to be the tributes' greatest opponent. With narrowed eyes, I spin around myself and feverishly scrutinize my surroundings. All I see is the metal of the hallway and the small sink.
The sink. Pipes. The walls must be hollow.