confessional hymns for the devil, himself
Disclaimer: I own nothing that has a copyright attached.
Chapter Eight
At first, fear paralyzes Clove into keeping perfectly still. As if the fog is some dark-dwelling predator that won't notice her if she does not move. Its first victim, the young boy she trained with just recently, falls to his knees a few yards from her. He is the one who let out the scream before.
Clove feels frozen and numb as she watches the fog creeping over the boy's prone, writhing form until nothing is seen but his fingers clenched and scrabbling at the base of a nearby tree. Eventually, they go slack as the fog overtakes him completely. There is no more sound.
Distantly, she feels someone tugging urgently at her arm. They turn her, and Clove is met with Cato's deep sea-blue eyes. She cannot focus on his voice. It sounds muffled and too far away like how everything did after Thresh had hit her. Slowly, as if someone was turning up the volume on a radio, Cato's words become clear.
"Come on, Clove, come on. You gotta move. Now."
She begins to follow behind Cato dumbly, his hand still wrapped around her wrist, before she snaps back to reality suddenly. Around her, the tributes are screaming and running further up the trail where Marvel is ushering everyone forward frantically. The tall girl from District 8 misjudges how wide their path is and runs directly into the invisible field to their left. It lights up neon blue as it electrocutes her on contact. She gurgles sharply and collapses to the ground, dead.
Free from the shock from before, Clove sprints between the running bodies towards the front of the pack with Cato close on her heels. The fog is moving at creeping pace behind them, but the force field slows the group down considerably.
"We need to keep the field ahead of us illuminated," Marvel yells, bending to scoop two handfuls of rocks and sticks in his hands. He throws it at where he believes the fence might be ahead of him. When the neon responds to his actions, the boy whoops. "This way!" he commands, tossing another bit of debris at either side of him.
The Tributes press in close – none of them are too stupid to break ahead of the group now. Clove would yell at the few who are weeping if she wasn't terrified, herself. There is no training for this contingency in the Games, only to avoid. People are predictable with weaknesses, but Snow's lethal traps are something else entirely.
"Shit!" Marvel's voice carries through the dark, cutting above the fearful calamity. "The trail has stopped!"
Clove passes him, hurdling over a fallen log. True to his word, the trailhead abruptly comes to an end. They face an overgrown thicket of brush and trees where Snow's men have not been through to clear. The timing is almost too perfect not to be a setup. This is an ingenious murder orchestrated by Snow.
Clove experimentally tests the darkened perimeter and gasps in surprise. "The field is gone, too!"
"Are you certain?" Rue's voice says from directly behind her.
Before Clove can answer, horrible keening noises erupt from the back of the group and the Tributes press forward like scared cattle.
"We're going to have to chance it, guys," Glimmer rushes out, pointing behind them. "The fog is speeding up now."
Clove sees another Tribute fall face-first before she turns and sprints off into the thick woods. She chooses death by electrocution over acid fog any day. Without the threat of the fence, strategy and caution fly in the face of being caught up in the fog's clutches. The Tributes crash through the forest paying no mind to the low-hanging branches that claw at their exposed faces and arms.
Clove's breath puffs steam in front of her mouth as she focuses on seeing the trees before her and not on the building hysteria inside her chest. How long can they run? How long can she? Already she feels the sharp ache in her calf muscles from having to run blindly on uneven terrain.
Behind her, she hears more Tributes screaming out plaintive cries for help or in pain. The acid fog is no longer following at snail's pace but barreling after them as though a sentient being chasing for the taste of blood. She hardly registers the sharps cuts to her face and neck as she runs.
Suddenly, Cato goes down next to her. Without thinking, she skids to her knees and claws quickly through the dirt floor to his side. "What is it? What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
His eyes are wild in the beam of her flashlight, hair plastered to his forehead and the nape of his neck with sweat. She imagines she looks no better.
"My boot—it's stuck." She shines the light at his feet where one of his boots is wedged sharply underneath an exposed tree root up to his ankle. He struggles to free himself but only succeeds in pushing it in further. He curses then, slapping the ground beside him with both palms.
"Here, stop, let me." Clove drops the flashlight near them and grabs his ankle with both hands. Her hands are sweaty from running and, try as she might, she can't get a good enough grip on the leather to effectively pull it loose from the root. The screams behind them as the fog begins to catch up with the slower runners of the group trickle cold fear down her spine. Cato is breathing like a wild animal next to her, desperation audible in every exhale.
"Just get out of here!" he yells at her next, pushing her arms away from his leg. "It's no use. Just go!"
Clove is angry then. She didn't make it this far with the asshole to give up on their bond now; if the incident the night before didn't take them out, like hell this was going to succeed. Deep down, she knew she didn't want to be out here alone.
"Not a chance jerk," she grits out, continuing her efforts. All around them scared Tributes dart past. Some of them hesitate, and the looks on their faces let Clove know that they want to stop and help but are so very afraid. Afraid of dying, too. Fearful of the internal conflict of helping someone who had been responsible for their fake death in the arena. Clove thinks some of them might be silently relieved that the two craziest members are about to be wiped out.
Not everyone runs though.
Out of nowhere, Thresh arrives and drops to his knees without hesitation. His large hands wrap around Cato's ankle and pull out and up in one quick motion. "Move it!" he yells. They scramble to their feet, but not before Clove feels searing pain against her left shoulder as the fog finally reaches them.
Cato tugs her harshly into a sprint, but it feels like the acid has latched onto her skin and eats away at her skin from within. The sickly smell of burning flesh reaches her nostrils and causes bile to rise in her throat. She must have moaned out loud, because Cato is slowing just enough to run alongside her, using his arm for her support.
"I know it hurts, but you have to keep going," he tries to reassure her.
"You don't have to coddle me. I wasn't planning on stopping," Clove bites out through clenched teeth. The pain is nothing short of excruciating, but she won't be the one to let it overcome her. Death is not claiming her this time.
Cato has a ghost of a smirk on his face at her response and pushes them through the forest behind Thresh. She barely feels the branches against her face now as pure adrenaline courses through her.
The blue light of dawn is just beginning to crest through the trees in front of her when, behind them, the acid fog abruptly stops and dissipates without warning. The remaining Tributes come to a halting stop clumped together within a clearing.
Clove pants harshly and glances around—wild-eyed. It was gone? How could it just disappear? Instantly, she feels a loss. It's insane, but she does. She tries to grasp onto the slippery, wild feeling in her body that feels a lot like it's named Danger and misses. Crazy enough she feels like she could keep running.
Glimmer approaches from her left and balks. "Jesus Clove, your shoulder."
Her shirt has been eaten away, and underneath is raw, blistered flesh. The fog must have contained some sort of cauterizing agent because it's not bleeding but looks deep enough that it should be. Around the edges of exposed meat is a cluster of fluid-filled blisters. The stench is potent, but Clove barely notices it now.
"We need to wrap this," Rue hurries, dropping to dig into her backpack for supplies. She pulls out a tincture of viscous fluid and a roll of gauze.
When the younger girl approaches her, Clove snatches it out of her hands and backs away. "I'll do it later. Are we out of danger?"
Everyone peers behind them in the still-darkened trees. No sign of the fog anywhere. Some of the Tributes begin to weep again, and Clove can barely stand the noise. It bothered her in the Games; it bothers her now.
"We should stop here," Marvel suggests gently. "It looks like it's gone for now and everyone could use a break." No one's expression seems to particularly care for the idea of stopping so close, but no arguments arise from the Tributes. Everyone is spent and flustered. Shocked disbelief and recognition of who is missing begin to register between them. Clove walks away from the crescendo, dragging her pack behind her. She's thankful she packed light; many people lost their heavy backpacks in the chaos.
She sets up her one-man tent at the far edge of the clearing where the bright rays of dawn sunlight cannot penetrate. She needs quiet as much as she needs a good fight right now. A small stream runs close to where she is, but it's not at the widest point and therefore safe from any of the others trying to dip their hands in near her. Marvel offers to help her set up her tent, but a quick growl in his direction sends him scurrying to offer his unwanted advice to someone else. It takes her a bit longer to secure it down than usual because of the sharp blight of pain in her shoulder.
Finally, she crawls in and zips it behind her allowing the stoic mask on her face to fall. She grimaces and gingerly pokes at the charred flesh, not looking forward to what she has to do next. She removes the remains of her shirt and struggles with the tighter undershirt that binds her small chest. A pungent aroma wafts from the vial of antiseptic towards her open mouth as she opens it, and she gags despite herself. It reminds her of waking up in Docere's clinic ward - disoriented and feral.
She has prepared herself for the sting, but the raw bite of it still takes her breath away in a gasp. She fists her discarded shirt in one hand, fingernails digging into the tent bottom and forest floor beneath it. She unrolls the gauze wrap next and focuses on reigning in her shaky breaths. She wraps the shoulder tightly, but not so much that her range of motion is impeded. This ordeal would have been easier if she had allowed someone to assist her, but she knows her pride would never allow her such luxuries.
She tugs her undershirt back on one-handed. It twists and bunches up around her midsection, but she finds herself not caring. All she wants is to lie down and attempt to chase away the anxiety built up in the pit of her stomach.
Her tent is a dark forest green and filters marginal sunlight through the canvas. The dark soothes her at this moment. Around her, she can hear the Tributes making camp and settling down. Fear is still a tangible taste in the air. She tries to block it all out, but she can't. Why won't they just all shut up? Why couldn't have they all died back there in the fog?!
Why couldn't have she?
Shame eats at her gut then. If she had run and left them behind, she might be alone now. Instead, she stayed. She helped Cato even when it put her own life in danger. She was making too many mistakes. The barrage of her inner turmoil is suddenly too much. Her skin prickles with panic and she shifts her feet restlessly against the side of the canvas.
Without a second thought, she slides a hand across her abdomen, tracing the small valley of her abdominal muscles and lower still until she reaches the sharp jut of a hip bone. The touch feels electric - different from the anxiety coiling in her chest. There is too much energy in her; she has to let off some steam.
She quickly unlaces the ties that hold up her linen pants and dips her fingers inwards, pushing aside her underwear to get at the core of her. To her surprise, wetness has already gathered between her folds, and she swipes a finger purposefully through the moisture. The first circle around her clit has her sighing softly. Slowly, the tension in her muscles begins to ebb away.
She is just beginning to find a rhythm when she hears footsteps near her tent. She is quiet - much quieter than probably anyone else -, but it still has her slowing her ministrations until they pass by. The hulking form of the other person casts a shadow over her before it stops completely.
Great. Someone wants to chat. Clove briefly entertains the thought of killing all the Tributes herself.
"We've lost quite a few people," Cato's voice states plainly, cutting through her murderous thoughts. Her hand in her pants stops abruptly. "The boys from District 4 and 6, the girl from 3, and both Tributes from 8."
Clove muses that Cato considers five people a loss - weak Tributes at that. Second, she is exasperated that he thinks she would care.
He doesn't talk after that, and Clove is giddy thinking he has walked away. She picks up where she left off, running the tip of her finger further down and dipping shallowly into her entrance. She has not masturbated in a long time, and the sensations are almost too pleasant.
"Thank you for helping me back there," Cato's voice suddenly booms next to the entrance to her tent, startling Clove. She huffs impatiently, pinching her inner thigh in frustration. "I thought you were going to leave me, but you, uh, you didn't." His voice drops to a quiet rumble, and the smooth vibration of it causes an entirely different sensation to skitter around her nether regions.
He continues to speak, but Clove begins to zone out as she works herself over. Her thighs start to tremble in the tell-tale way they do before she comes. Cato has no idea the reaction he's causing in her, and honestly, she can't pin it down either. He's doing nothing but talking, an action she often loathes coming from him. Now his voice saying the most mundane shit is about to push her over the edge.
She dips two fingers into her pussy, slipping in easily even after all this time from how wet she is. Her walls flutter as she continues to stimulate her clit with her thumb. She focuses on the sound of his voice, catching a coherent word every once in a while. Important. Partners. More. Working.
He goes silent for a second, but Clove is right there about to tumble over the edge. "Hey Clove, did you hear what I said?" She gasps loudly, breaking her own rule without permission. Her orgasm explodes from within her lower half, sending the hair on her arms to stand on end and a chilled sensation at the base of her skull. She clamps both hands over her mouth quickly, flushing despite herself. How could she be so careless? What is wrong with her?!
"Uh…Clove?" His voice is knowing. No one gasps like that for more than one reason.
She clears the thickness from her throat. "I'm here." Her thighs are still trembling, and now that she's been found out, she can't help but notice how loud her twitching has become against the tent.
"I can see that." His voice is equal parts amusement and disbelief. "Did you, uh, get any of that?"
Fuck yeah, she did. She hadn't come that hard in months. That's not what he's referring to though. "You'll have to run it by me later." Embarrassment starts hitting her hard as she descends from her high. Did she get off to Cato's voice?
He chuckles lowly, and it causes another twinge through her clit. Jesus Christ, why?! "Maybe I should question your sanity if being in danger really has you this worked up right now."
"Maybe you should leave and let me sleep asshole!" she snaps, reddening further. Thankfully, Cato can't see her. Making eye contact right now would be Hell. It'll be Hell later, but she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it.
"I don't know. I think you could go again," he flirts perversely. She can't help but notice the drop in his voice to something that could almost be called husky. She kicks out hard against the side of the tent with her booted foot, triumphant when it meets flesh, and he yelps in response.
"Okay, okay, I'm going. Sleep well, Clove," he adds as an afterthought. She can feel his smirk though she can't see it. He moves to get up, and the shadow of his body is gone, allowing the sunlight to stream back into her face.
Exhaustion steals over her, and Clove feels like she could sleep for days. She tries to push off the creeping feelings associated with what just occurred. She'll over-analyze the hell out of it later. Right now, a deep, dreamless coma awaits her.
She dreams about him regardless.