Day 2: Camp

I pause and listen into the silence to see if footsteps can be heard anywhere. When I'm sure I'm completely alone in my section of the arena, that the girl from 10 has moved far enough away, I get down on my knees and examine the metal plates of the wall. At first I see nothing, but then a small notch catches my eye at the very bottom next to my foot. A notch? No. A screw. Excited, I pull out my knife, jam the blade into the slot and turn with great effort. The screw is tight and again and again the knife slips out, but after a few minutes it falls to the floor. I remove more screws and put them each in my pocket. Then I stand up and carefully lift the metal plate from the wall that lines the corridor.

Behind it is a cavity, about a meter deep and a meter and a half high and wide each. Pipes run in the back and there is a shaft at the top, the meaning of which I don't understand. Excited about my find and due to the lack of alternatives, I decide to make camp in this cavity for the night. I place the bag inside and climb behind it in a squatting position. Then I pull the slab between me and the shiny passage. From the inside, despite the darkness, I find a way to turn the screws back into the holes, at least temporarily, so that the lining of my hiding place will hold. As tiny as the screws are, no other tribute is likely to notice them, of that I'm sure. And no one will be able to see into the darkness through the two slits at the top of the plate. Grinning to myself, I put the knife next to me and feel in my bag for a piece of dried meat. After eating, I throw the heavy blanket over me and soon doze off.

Only the hymn of Panem wakes me briefly. Blinking, I notice blue light shimmering through the slits above me and I curiously straighten up to look outside at the hallway.

Since there is no sky in the arena this year, the Gamemakers seem to have decided to show the dead on the walls. On all the walls. It's outrageous: in my limited field of vision alone, the Capitol crest falls three times. And as it flickers and changes into a human face, I really realize for the first time what I'm doing. That I'm in the arena. Really a tribute to the Hunger Games. That it's a matter of life and death – because the children I see there on the wall are dead.

The boy from District 6 is shown first. This means that all the career tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4 have survived the bloodbath. Both from 3 are also still alive. And so is Tic. I wonder if he's still out in the desert. The boy from 6 is followed by the girl from his district. Also dead are both from 7, both from 8. Then there is the boy from District 10 that I killed. In the photo that the Capitol is currently eerily throwing up on the walls several times, he has his lips twisted into a sheepish smile. The last time I saw him, he had put on a very different expression and involuntarily I shudder. My first murder and I don't think about it until half a day later. In my mind, a proud part of me pushes forward because apparently all my training has worked. As scary as it may be at the same time, I know I'm on the right path. The one that shows everyone what I am. A victor.

I hardly notice the faces of the remaining deceased, but the last thing I see before I sink back to the floor of my wall hiding place is the girl from 12. She must have been burned on the ground or stabbed as easy prey. She could have lain in the sand for a few minutes at most before I had already moved away from the Cornucopia again. Either, this arena is killing tributes faster than I thought, or the others around me are really more dangerous than anticipated. Regardless of how strong I am as a tribute, Porter was right.

Early the next morning, the blast of another cannon wakes me up. The bang, which echoes in my metal shelter a lot worse than it still does in the hallway, reminds me right back to where I was and the time ahead of me.

Hunger Games.

Arena.

I am a tribute.

And one of the others has just died. But who? Tic?

I sit bolt upright against the wall and listen. There's nothing.

Then a scream. Again?

I shoot up and bang my head against something above me. In a fit of fear, I draw my weapon and slam the butt of the knife against the something. There is a crack, a pop, and then the shaft above me breaks apart. This pipe, which does not lead to the sink and seems to be useless for anything else. It's made of far thinner material than the rest of the metal box I'm sitting in, and now it hangs limp and split in two next to my head. I close my eyes, exhale, and try to get my pounding heart under control.

I have not been attacked. I am alive.

And the cannon and the scream came from far away, not like yesterday with the girl from 10 that was right around the corner. I force myself to breathe calmly, but everything is going too fast for me right now. But panic will not help me. Systematic approach is the key.

So. Ten dead tributes at the Cornucopia, one injured I encountered just yesterday, now another dead. Eleven in less than a day. In my mind I count who's left: the career tributes are six, I'm alone. That leaves six more tributes, wandering either alone or in small groups in the desert or the labyrinth. Six kids to take out before Saylor starts his hunt for me or vice versa. I had expected more time, because time is what I really need. So far I have only two knives and hardly any overview of the extent or pitfalls of the arena.

I briefly weigh whether I should spend the day in my shelter, but decide against it. I ran to the Cornucopia, into the bloodbath, I'm not going to hide now. I didn't score ten points for a game of hide and seek. And I know that if I expect something from sponsors, I have to deliver entertainment in return. Not to mention, I have a huge disadvantage over many other tributes: often the Hunger Games last a long time, and I never learned to starve in my family. Dried fruit and dried meat won't get me far, not in the arena where my physical condition is elemental. I need nourishment.

So I turn the screws out of the wall and slip out into the hallway. Except for my weapons, I leave all my belongings behind – I can't risk losing them. No sooner have I reattached the metal plate to the wall, thus hiding the soft gurgling of the water pipes, than a ghostly silence settles around me.

Where should I go? I mark my hiding place with a small notch near the floor, then turn to the right. I know that roughly in this direction lies the Cornucopia, but when I arrive at the next intersection, I turn in the opposite direction. At each corner I leave a scratch in the wall with the dagger, always at a different height and so tiny that no one can trace me. At the same time, I count the directions in my head, make a little song out of it, so as not to lose my bearings. But it is no use. I've barely been walking for half an hour through the same corridors with the same neon lights on the ceiling when I'm already sure I've lost my way. Annoyed, I look around.

"Did you guys run out of money for more scenery?", I say quietly to a sink, because I'm sure they're equipped with cameras. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to have that comment cheer up some Capitol resident. Then I turn around and start back the way I came. It is completely silent in the labyrinth; I notice only my own breathing as I walk. No footsteps. No voices. No cannon. No sign of other tributes. As attentive as I am to the sounds, however, my eyes seem to slacken as about an hour passes before I realize I'm lost.

I spin around once on the pads. None of the walls around me bear a notch. Everything looks absolutely the same, absolutely identical, every screw is turned into the wall at the same angle, the air vents in the metal panels are the same height, and the sinks, which I can't drink from without my cold pack, glisten the same enticing way. No trace of food. Sobered, I take my hand off the wall and lower both arms.

This can't be true. All that training and I fail at orientation? Now my last rations are hidden in one of the walls, I can't find my way back to the remaining supplies at the Cornucopia, and I haven't met another tribute all day that I could have taken food from. I feel like I'm completely alone locked in this damn arena. So much for my planned show for the sponsors.

I wander around for a while longer, trying to keep one hand along the silvery wall at all times. At some point, when my feet are already starting to hurt from walking in my stocking feet on the hard floor, the anthem sounds. One by one, the lamps go out around me, and before the corridor lies there in complete darkness, the coat of arms of Panem can be seen shimmering bluishly. Everywhere. The bird with outstretched wings and the laurel wreath is right in front of me on the wall, on the panels next to it, on the ceiling and on the floor. Everywhere I look, there is the crest. I shudder and wait to see the face of the tribute who died today, whose cannon woke me up. It's an unfamiliar boy, district number 9 emblazoned below him. Then the haunting is over, his dozens of faces fade into the hallway, the anthem fades and the lights come back on.

I stand there alone.

Alone, intimidated and powerless.

"Shame on you!" it rings through my skull. "You're prepared to kill, and those who can, can find their way out of a maze! Get a grip!" With each word, my thoughts take on more of my grandmother's voice, mimicking the drill of years past. What an embarrassment I must be right now, to my family, to the cameras. "There won't be two Brunels dying in the arena. Show them we're not going to let them get us down!"

Don't let them get you down.

I focus on that phrase, repeating it like a mantra, over and over, until I finally say the words out loud: "I won't let them get me down." And then, "Your empty arena can kiss my ass!"

I tighten my shoulders and turn left, this time focusing on all my senses. And that's exactly what saves my life a few moments later.